Salt in Our Wounds
by thewickednix
Summary: **Sequel to Behind the Green Door** Four years have passed since Harry Potter escaped from the dungeons of the Manor, and Draco Malfoy's life has been shattered to pieces. Two haunted young men are brought together by the twists of fate.
1. Freedom Hangs Like Heaven

**Title:** Salt in Our Wounds  
**Author: **thewickednix  
**Pairing: **Harry Potter/ Draco Malfoy  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Categories: **Slash  
**Warnings: **Dark, Coarse Language, Sexual Situations, Violence, Angst

**Summary: **Four years have passed since Harry Potter escaped from the dungeons of the Manor, and Draco Malfoy's life has been shattered to pieces. Two haunted young men are brought together by the twists of fate. But mending what was broken is not easy with a past like theirs.

_DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. _

**Author's notes: **So this is the much requested sequel to Behind the Green Door. It will probably grow into becoming quite a bit loner than that one, as I am now including Harry's Pov in addition to Draco's. I'll try to update at least twice a week, but it all depends on how busy my 'real' life is at the moment. **  
**

**Part I**

**Freedom Hangs Like Heaven**

"…Merlin!"

The word escapes me in a pained breath as I slowly close my eyes. My raspy voice bounces off the walls, echoing in the empty room. The surreal sound mixed with the fatigue and pain causes my head to spin uncontrollably.

Moving is impossible. The excruciating pain has long since settled into a dull ache, covering the entire mass off my body. In truth, I doubt the pain has actually ceased at all. It's just that I have become unable to move, my body seemingly cramped in the same position for days, and the numbness of both my body and my mind has created the illusion of a pain-free state.

I do not even dare to _try_ and move. I'm afraid it will start again, the pain, the screaming, the metallic taste of fresh blood filling my mouth. I lie on my stomach, my ribs digging into the cold stone floor, my shirt having slid up slightly to put my skin at the mercy of the freezing air.

How distant this room, this reality feels. So eerie and surreal. Yet so familiar.

Such irony that I should find myself here. It is not the same dungeon in which _he_ was held captive. But a dungeon nonetheless. A dungeon with the same rusty black bars, the same myrtle door, and the same thick, damp air, filling my lungs and chilling me to the bone.

How long has it been, I wonder? Two weeks? A month? Three months? I seem to have lost all track of time since they threw me in here. All sense of time and direction has dissolved in the endless masses of curses, darkness, and that unstoppable pain.

In the beginning I could pretend. I could close my eyes and wish myself somewhere far away, somewhere where all of this was nothing but a horrible nightmare. But now, I can barely close my eyes anymore. I'm afraid that when I do, they will come back and wake me up, and it will all start all over again. There is no longer an alternative to my reality. No escape. At some point it has all faded away; my wishes, my dreams. My memories.

Father. Mother. Astoria. At one point thinking of them was almost too painful to bear. Now the memories of them have slipped away, becoming little more than ghosts of smoke and dust of a previous life.

Now I only have him left. The worst memory of all. The best thing of my life, and the worst. The one person I truly wanted to forget. The one memory I truly needed to erase.

Potter.

* * *

"Harry? _Harry! _Are you even listening to me?"

I am startled out of my musings, and lower my copy of the _Daily Prophet _to peer over the pages. "Yes?"

Ginny sighs exasperatedly, stalking over to the table with two cups of tea in hand. "You seem to be in desperate need of a hearing aid," she mutters, setting on of the cups down in front of me, a drop of the hot liquid spilling over the edge.

"What were you saying?" I look up at Ginny, who purses her mouth with disparagement.

"It wasn't important," she answers, sighing as she takes a seat opposite me. She shakes her head softly, taking a small sip of her drink. "I just thought we could do something nice today, since it's my last day before term starts again." She looks up at me hopefully, flashing her eyelashes expectantly as she always does when she is asking me to do something I'd rather not.

I fight the urge to sigh. "What do you want to do?" I ask, though I fear I already know the answer.

"Well…" she begins fleetingly, fidgeting with the cup in her hands. "I thought we could take a trip to Hogsmeade, visit Honeyduke's, Zonko's, and The Three Broomsticks. You know, for old times sake?" Ginny looks at me pleadingly, and in spite of wanting to make her happy, she knows as well as I do that I will not do what she is asking.

"I'm sorry, Ginny," I state, shrugging nonchalantly, sipping my tea carefully, looking anywhere but directly at her. "I just don't feel up to that today. We can go down to the village if you like?" I offer, casting her a questioning glance over the edge of my cup.

Ginny sighs, evidently tired of this game. Still, she answers as she always does.

"Maybe some other time, then," she mumbles, avoiding to look me in the eye as she rises from her seat and exits the room. I sigh heavily. It's always the same thing. She asks me to accompany her to Hogsmeade or Diagon Alley, thinking that if she asks me enough times I will eventually agree. And I decline each time, making up one bad excuse after another to no actual benefit. Ginny knows I'm lying anyway.

She doesn't know why I don't want to go. In truth, neither do I. In the last three years I have barely set a foot in the Wizarding World, apart from occasional necessary visits to the Ministry or Gringotts.

I do what I can for the war. More than I actually should, according to Ginny. In fact, even as the war is ending it takes up most of my free time. One would think that would be enough to satisfy the Wizarding community. But no, they want me to pose for magazine covers, to attend all sorts of public meetings and festivities, and to just laugh and smile my Boy Hero-smile whenever someone stops me in the streets to shake my hand.

What else should be expected? After all, I am the boy who killed Voldemort.

But somehow, I had thought the publicity would stop at that. Now that Voldemort is dead and done with, the name Harry Potter should befit no special position. Nowadays I'm just searching for the remaining un-captured Death Eaters, along with a couple hundred of Aurors. I am no longer anyone special.

Why can't they get that into their thick skulls?

* * *

"I'll be back for Christmas," Ginny says, kissing me lightly on the lips before she grabs her suitcase and hurries out through the door. On the porch she stops, looking back at me and flashing a smile. I feel a slight ache at seeing her go, suspecting she will be too busy teaching to even remember me. I wish I could have the same freedom to do as I wish, live out my dreams the way I choose without anyone's interference.

The problem is, I don't know what my dreams are.

I follow Ginny with my gaze as she hurries down the hill, skipping down from the raised pavement and over the street. Only when I see her red hair disappear out of sight do I close the door and return to the empty rooms.

I'll miss her enormously during the two months she is gone. Her fiery nature brings a warmth into this house which, in spite of my exertions, still seems cold and lifeless. I hate it, I would have much rather stayed at Grimmauld Place, which after the war felt more like home than any other place ever has. Why Ginny simply refused to, I have no idea. But I don't ask too many questions. And she returns the favour.

After dressing properly in black trousers and a gray sweater, I pull on my coat and step into the drawing room. I open the Floo and reach for the small urn by the fire place. Grabbing a handful of Floo powder, I step into the fire place and take a deep breath.

"Ministry of Magic, London!"

The next thing I know, I'm stepping out of green flames into the familiar hall of the Ministry. Out of habit my feet take me swiftly to the door of the Auror Office. And just like each and every time before, my heart twitches a little at those words.

_Auror_.

I don't need to be an Auror, I'm Harry bloody Potter, defeater of the darkest wizard who ever lived. When I applied to Auror training, they refused to admit me, and sent me directly here. No training needed, for what could any school teach me?

Wonderful. And so fucking frustrating.

"Good morning, Mr Potter," Janine smiles from behind her desk. The girl looks disapprovingly at the clock on the wall, and I sigh.

"Yes, I know I'm late," I mutter as I move past her desk towards the door to my office. As if someone would miss me at seven in the morning.

"Mr Jones is here to see you," she declares, pursing her lips. "He said it was urgent."

"Shit," I mutter beneath my breath, and Janine raises an eyebrow at me, trying not to look too smug. She knows precisely how much Jones annoys me.

I take a deep breath and collect myself for seeing his ugly hide so early in the morning. My hand already on the door handle, I turn back to my secretary. "Is there any coffee?"

Janine smiles self-satisfactory and nods. "On your desk. Black, large size. I brought a bagel, too, you should eat something once in a while."

I grin. "Thanks. You're the best."

She grins. "I know."

"Good morning, Harry," Jones voice cuts through the room as I enter.

"Morning, Robert," I mutter to the man currently standing behind my desk and examining my bookshelf. "Please, take a seat," I state, gesturing towards the chair on the other side of the desk, desperate to get him away from my things. The tall man obeys, stalking around the table and placing himself in the chair. I hang my coat on a hanger and sit down behind my desk.

"What can I do for you?" I ask Jones offhandedly, reaching for my coffee.

"I'll be direct," the dark-haired man answers, and for the first time I actually focus my attention on him. Jones has never been known to be straightforward.

"We think there are some remaining Death Eaters at the Malfoy Mansion."

I can't help the sudden cough that escapes me, causing me to blow into my coffee so that it flows over the rim of the cup and onto my hand. As I swear at the hot liquid and wipe my palm on a napkin, I look over at Jones in disbelief. "What?"

Before he has time to answer, I continue. "We've searched that place time and again. What makes you think they're back there now?"

Jones looks a little flustered, and he fidgets slightly in his chair. "Chief said that there had been some unusual magical activity in the area. Not much, but allarming because the place is supposed to be uninhabited."

I nod slowly, focusing on something in the distance. Yes, when I escaped from the Manor and contacted the Aurors, they were there within 12 hours. The place was completely deserted, no traces of Voldemort or the Malfoy family anywhere. We've visited the place several times after that, but as nothing has ever been found, the times have grown scarce. The last time was more than a year ago.

A chill goes through my body as I think of the place. Most times I try not to. But the memories overflow me every time I let my thoughts wander, and every time I am forced to go back to that house I feel like that seventeen year-old boy again. Reckless. Vulnerable. Impossibly naïve.

Hopelessly in love with Draco Malfoy.

"Chief Hunt thinks we should go there as soon as possible, this afternoon if Tonks manages to contact Octavius."

Jones' voice cuts through my reverie, and I am brutally shook back into reality. "Y-yeah, you're right," I state, clearing my throat and cursing my voice for shaking. "If there truly is something there, we'll probably need the whole team."

"Indeed," Jones answers, rising from his chair. "I'll keep you posted, but be prepared for that we might leave any minute."

I only nod, watching the other man as he exits the room. As the door slams shut, I can only sigh and lean back into my chair.

Somehow, even after all the time that has passed since I escaped from the Manor, the memories still haunt me like it was only yesterday. Of course, things have changed in the past four years.

I did not want to believe it the first time I saw the headlines; '_Massive Muggle slaughter. Twenty-five brutally murdered. Young Malfoy identified by interfering Aurors_.'

Along the way, it only kept getting worse. I have to witness the result of his Imperiuses and tortures in wounded and eternally scarred people each day. The worst are the Muggles, petrified and hysterical, screaming and shouting about strangely dressed men with sticks, appearing out of thin air, and then the pain… Of course, there are not many of those. Most of the Muggles aren't left to live for the Aurors to find them.

And still, even knowing this, I keep searching for him. Hoping perhaps to find that it isn't true, that he never participated in any of it, that he's innocent… Even as I know that any such thoughts are nothing beyond a hopeless illusion.

I promised Draco I would do my all to save him, as he saved me. And if I ever do find him, I will. Because while I'll never be able to forgive him, he did save my life. And as long as I owe him that, I am bound to him.

If I save him, I can finally set myself free. I can put the past behind me.

I can finally let go.

**End of part I**


	2. The Art of Losing

**Part II**

**The Art of Losing**

"Oh teeny tiny little Draco! How are you this afternoon?"

My aunt's shrill sing-song voice cuts through the air, awaking me from what was either sleep or unconsciousness. For a moment I keep my eyes closed, hoping desperately that if I keep pretending that she doesn't exist, she will disappear.

But when she kicks the bars, sending a loud, strident sound through the metal, I force myself to open my eyes. Not that it makes much difference, lying on my stomach on the floor I can still only see her shoes and the hem of her robes.

Bella doesn't seem to care. "I just came to inform you that we are leaving now."

I brace myself for what can only become a very uncomfortable moving trip. My aunt seems to sense the gathering tension in my body, and snorts loudly.

"Don't think that you are coming with us," she drawls mockingly. "While I don't think you have suffered enough for what you did, it is getting quite tedious to try and keep you alive."

At those words I let out a breath that I seem to have been holding for ages. All my life I have feared death more than anything, but now that it finally stands before me, the only thing I feel is relief. Whatever mysteries death holds, it cannot be worse than this.

Faced with my silent acceptance instead of pleadings for mercy, Bella's voice becomes enraged. "You coward!" she exclaims, and before I have the time to react I feel a tinge of magic and I am flown around in the air, landing violently on my back on the stone floor. I cannot help the pained cry that escapes me. As I lie there groaning and breathing shakily, I am finally able to look up into my aunt's scornful face.

"You are just like my sister," she sneers, the disgust evident in her voice. I feel the rage begin to boil within me at the mention of my mother. Bella sees it and continues, grinning: "Refusing to fight back, thinking that there is any dignity in dying bloody and bound on the dirty floor of a dungeon. Hah!" Bella exclaims with contemptuous mirth. She leans down a bit, her gray eyes boring into mine as she leers at me.

"Dying is losing, Draco. There is no dignity in death."

The snort that escapes me sounds more like a cough, but it doesn't stop me from sneering back at Bellatrix. "Where is the dignity in hiding in places such as these dungeons for the rest of your life then, dear Bella?" I drawl, fully awaiting the _Crucio _when it comes. And when Bella finally lowers her wand, I am still chuckling through the pained sobs.

"We'll see if you are laughing when you rot to death in here," my aunt grits through clenched teeth, disappearing in a swirl of robes that would have made Severus proud. My raspy laugh dies out after she leaves, but her words do not stop amusing me. My fate might be death, but it is much better than the lifetime of pursuit that will be fate of Bella, Rodolphus, Nott, Yaxley, and all the other Death Eaters who haven't yet been caught by the Ministry. My fate is much better that that of those already caught and trialed by the Ministry, now locked up for life in Azkaban.

I haven't been a saint. I have done many things I am not proud of. To tell the truth, I thank Merlin for getting me off the hook this easily. And for letting Father, Mother, and Astoria die before they had to see me like this.

For preventing Potter from finding me.

In the end, death approaches easily. Gently wrapping around me like a warm, dark blanket, swallowing what is left of the pain and suffering.

Yes, I have absolutely nothing to complain about.

* * *

"It looks completely abandoned," Tonks mutters quietly, ascending the front stairs of the Manor and casting a disbelieving glance at Chief Hunt. She doesn't believe there to be anything here, because she's visited this house several times during the last four years. And each time it is found just as empty and uninhabited. I'm not as convinced, but answer with an agreeing "Mmmh," for Tonks' benefit.

The difference between us is that I spent two months here four years ago, and still have a hard time swallowing the fact that any traces of those years have disappeared. The dungeon was left, of course. Not that I know which one it was, as all the cells in the Manor are identical.

"Potter, Tonks," the Chief mutters warningly under his breath. Every one of us steps as quietly as possible on the marble floor as we enter into the Entrance Hall. Even after all these years, the abandoned house looks exactly the same. The crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling are free from cot web, the floor is shiny and clean, no door hinge cringes under our touch. I suspect the house elves keep the mansion in perfect condition, even as its owners have long since disappeared.

"Jones! The Great Room and drawing room. Conway, you are coming with me to the dining room and kitchen," Hunt directs the two Aurors, before turning towards Tonks and me. "Potter! Search the upper East Wing. Tonks, you take the guest quarters."

I nod obediently even as a shiver runs through my body. A place I've never been. The East Wing, where the master bedrooms are.

Draco's room.

"Depart!" Hunt hisses at me, and I realise I've remained in my place, staring at a wall.

"Yes, sir," I hurry to answer, stalking towards the wide staircase that Tonks has already ascended.

Draco's room is easy to find. After searching through the master bedroom and finding it completely empty, I approach the second largest bedroom door. The solid wooden door looks heavy, but moves like air beneath my hands. I enter into a large room, with a fire place and two armchairs by the West wall and a four poster bed by the East one. A massive closet rises beside the bed, and a smaller door leads to what must be the bathroom. Everything is clean and simple, coloured in various greens, blacks, and greys.

In spite of what my actual task is, I immediately find my feet moving towards the gigantic closet. I open the door and am met by a variety of robes in different colours and sizes. Apart from the robes, most of the shelves are half empty; it is obvious that they were cleaned out as Draco left.

I feel a tug in my ribs at the reminder, and cannot hinder myself from reaching out and tugging at a set of pitch black robes, pulling them towards myself. I lean in and press my face against the cloth, closing my eyes and breathing deeply, taking in the scent of musk, cedar wood, and ginger flower. The scent of Draco, preserved even after all this time. The exact same scent that I could taste on his skin, the same note that seemed to linger in the sheets of that ascetic bed long after he had risen from it.

The scent that has haunted me throughout these four years.

Desperate to get away, to rouse myself from these plaguing memories, I blast my eyes open and pull myself back rapidly, the black robes falling back into the closet. I watch the cloth sway from the movement for a brief second before I slam the door shut, deciding I have by far overstayed my visit in this room.

"Did you find anything?" Tonks asks me as we descend the stairs together. I shake my head, not quite trusting myself to speak quite yet. A large lump that I cannot seem to swallow seems to have gathered in my throat.

"Me neither," the witch sighs. "Though there was a nice coat laying on one chair that I wouldn't have declined to take with me…" she grins, completely oblivious to my silent despair.

Hunt looks at us inquiringly as we approach him, Jones and Conway in the hall, and I shake my head. "Nothing," I croak, and Hunt doesn't look surprised.

"There never is," he mutters, taking a deep breath and observing the room somewhat absentmindedly. "Let's check out the dungeons yet before we leave."

An involuntary shudder goes through my body, and Tonks pretends no to notice. Still, she touches my shoulder, briefly but comfortingly, as we stalk towards the end of the hall where a small door awaits. The door itself seems to indicate that we should not pass through it, and it does nothing to help my mood. I defy it by being the first one to reach the door, reaching out and pushing down the handle.

The door swings open reluctantly, and I use Lumos to guide myself down the stairs in the dark hallway. The air is cold and damp, a light odour of mould and fungus irritating my nostrils. For a second I feel like retching, but I bite my lip and fight to swallow the nausea.

_This is ridiculous! _I think to myself. I've been here so many times since I was held captured, and still every time I just feel like running away and hiding.

"Potter, Conway, you go left," Hunt orders from somewhere behind me, and I find relief in being able to concentrate on something beyond the panicked screams in my own head. Hunt and Tonks disappear down the hall to the right, and I am left alone with Conway. He doesn't like me, that much is obvious, he never has. Not really surprising, as I got into the same department at the Ministry as he after a twenty-minute interview, when he had been studying and working to reach that place for nine years.

Conway walks past me in the hall, not speaking and completely ignoring me. It is a little unnerving, as uncooperative behaviour in the field can be fatal. Luckily, the dungeons seem just as abandoned as the rest of the house. I pass by green door after green door, a knot appearing in my stomach each time I push a door open and see the inside of the room. I don't come across the cell that was my prison four years ago. I probably wouldn't even recognise it if I did; all of these rooms look identical, all portray the same image of my memory.

Suddenly Conway's voice cuts through the air. "Potter, in here!"

Maybe it is my panicked expectance for something to happen, or the fact that for the first time Conway is addressing me directly, but I jump where I stand. Shaking legs carry me to the door among others where I last saw Conway enter. The man has stopped in the middle of the floor, his face unusually pale. He looks horrified. Afraid but nevertheless compelled to know what has shocked the Auror so, I follow his gaze.

There, on the floor inside a black metal cell, identical to the one I was held hostage in, lies an immobile body. I barely have time to think before I am pushing past Conway and moving towards the cell, refusing to think that this person is just another Muggle killed by the Death Eaters. I don't know if I can stand another failure.

But as I reach the cell, something seems to hinder me. Taking a closer look at the body in front of me, I see what I couldn't see before. I see what Conway probably already noticed, what prevented him from running forth first.

The face of the person, the man, in the cell has fallen to the side, away from me, but it is his hair that catches my attention. Like his clothes his hair is dark and dirty from mud, blood and grime. But as the light of my wand falls over it, strands of light, platinum hair become visible.

My legs sway and I must grab the bars I front of me for support.

"…Oh my god!"

I never thought that death could be interrupted. Apparently, I was wrong.

An unfamiliar male voice startles me from what was supposed to be my final rest. For a moment I am uncertain if it was real or just in my mind, but soon a chilly draft starts creeping under my clothes and into my consciousness, and I realise someone has opened the door.

Steps are heard from the corridor, approaching rapidly until they enter the room. Growing irregular for a moment, the person then seems to startle and then rush forward to my cell. I still can't seem to open my eyes, not to mention move my head to look at the intruders. Instead I concentrate on wishing them away.

_People have absolutely no manners these days. Intruding on a dying man, how rude!_

A light falls on the side of my head, piercing through my eyelids and irritating my eyes. I hear a small gasp behind me, and the thud of something hitting the metal bars.

"…Oh my god!" the raspy voice of another man utters. And something in that voice awakes a feeling, the distant trace of a memory that makes me force my eyes open. Squinting at the light, I slowly turn my head towards the source of it.

My eyes blinded from the light I am only able to see the silhouette of the man before me. But as I turn my head I hear him take in a harsh, sudden breath, and before my eyes even focus I know whom I am faced with. Still, the brightness of the green eyes I perceive as I grow accustomed to the light is as breathtaking as ever.

"Draco," he utters, a strange mixture of relief and despair in his hoarse voice.

_Harry fucking Potter._

The resolution puts an end to my misery, and I fall into unconsciousness.

**End of part II**


	3. For Heads Unworthy

**Part III**

**For Heads Unworthy**

There are few things that are more horrifying than waking up and realising you're not where you were when you fell asleep.

It's the aching pain of movement and re-opened wounds that wakes me from a deep unconsciousness. Even before I open my eyes, I realise that something is different. Wrong. The air is unfamiliar, there is a sense of tension and the presence of other people in it.

I have no doubt of where I am.

Opening my eyes, my gaze falls on the high stone ceiling above me. A cold blue light falls into the room from somewhere behind me, probably a window. I realise I can't efficiently observe my surroundings lying down. Taking a deep breath and bracing myself, I wriggle up into a sitting position. Every bone in my body complains at the movement, every muscle screams of the strain.

The room I am in is a small cell, stone walls all around me except where the wooden door lays. The door is equipped with a small barred window and a tiny trapdoor, only confirming what I already knew.

I am in Azkaban.

Suddenly I feel violently ill and my head starts spinning. I am forced to close my eyes, gripping my head with one hand to keep some sense of this reality. Touching my head, I realise that sometime during the time I was brought here, it has been bandaged. I feel gauzes wrapped around my chest and back too, tightening uncomfortably as I breathe heavily. To my horror I also notice that my hair has been cropped short in a very sloppy fashion. Of course, they'd rather do that than to wash the grime and blood out of it.

Looking down at myself, I suddenly realise that I am not in a prison uniform, but in my own dirty robes. Strange, considering I am obviously already in Azkaban.

The thought sends a shiver down my spine. Azkaban. The worst possible shame and punishment.

Still, I don't feel as bad as I thought I would. Naturally, that has a lot to do with that idiot Shacklebolt removing the Dementors from this place. Not that I am complaining, but one would think it was better for the Ministry when the prisoners went mad instead of just moped around in here, plotting their revenges.

The cell is not as bad as it could have been, albeit void of even a table to sit by. Looking around, the blue light suddenly catches my interest again, and I turn around to see a small window high above my head on the back wall. Tiny, but nevertheless, a window. I lean back to gaze out through it, seeing the pale moon floating over the dark blue sky, the stars glistening harmoniously behind it.

It's the first time I have seen the sky in months, and I immediately feel a little lighter about my existence. Even without the Dementors there is a sense of despair and hopelessness to this place, but I don't feel nearly as horrible as I always thought I would feel if I ended up in Azkaban.

To my further relief, I know that no one lives for long here, anyway.

With that thought my exhaustion takes over, I fall back on the lumpy bed, sleep claiming me immediately.

* * *

"Harry, would you stop pacing! You're getting on my nerves!"

I stop as if I've hit a wall, tuning to Ron. "I can't help it! They put him in Azkaban, Ron!" I exclaim, stalking over to the table and slumping down on a chair. I slam my fist down on the table and Hermione jumps in her seat. Ron watches me with a sour look on his face, but for once he doesn't express his thoughts.

Hermione leans forward, placing a comforting hand on mine. "You can still help him. He hasn't been condemned yet, which is a good sign! They obviously don't know what to do with him!"

Her words make sense, but they do nothing to ease my despair. "But the hearing isn't until the 21st! How can I let him wait there for _two weeks_..?

Finally, Ron can't take it anymore. He sighs exasperatedly. "Why do you care so much? Harry, it's Malfoy!" Ron sneers viciously, stating the name as if it tasted bad on his tongue. "Think of all the things he's done!"

My pent up rage and lack of sleep almost cause me to run up from my seat and knock Ron out of his chair. I resist, resorting to only yelling at him.

"He let me out! If it weren't for him, I'd be dead by now, and Voldemort would have won!" Hermione grips my hand tighter, and I quiet my voice slightly, still looking straight at Ron. "You didn't see the state he was in, Ron. Face all smashed up, so bloody and dirty I barely recognised him. He looked like he hadn't been fed for weeks!"

Ron breaks the eye contact, lowering his gaze in shame. He still hates Draco, more than anything, but not even he can refrain from pitying the Death Eater. And watching my dear friend, I realise that if I can convince even him, maybe I can convince the Ministry.

The least I can do is try.

"I'm going to the Ministry," I state, rising from my seat and walking towards the door.

"Do you want us to come with you?" Hermione asks, and I feel my heart ease a little at the knowledge that I have such wonderful friends that support me even through this. Even through a matter that they can't quite understand.

Then again, if they knew even a part of the real reason why I can't leave Draco in Azkaban, I doubt even Hermione would be as supportive.

"No need," I respond, smiling gratefully at the bushy-haired girl. "I think it's better if I talk to Shacklebolt about Malfoy myself."

I am just about to turn around when I hear Ron's quiet voice.

"Why can't you just let it go?"

The words cut right through me. It is a question I have wondered about throughout these four years myself.

Sometimes I think I _should_ let it go. Leave Draco to where he belongs, and get on with my life. My life which seems to have developed into all that I ever wanted, except for the tiny details of Draco's presence in it.

Perhaps during the day, I could live with myself. I could forget. Bu during the long hours of the night, how could I ever sleep peacefully, knowing that I failed to aid him when he needed me. Knowing that a man who saved my life was sent to a life in Azkaban due to my fear of inconvenience for myself?

Knowing that I didn't help him because I wanted to punish him for his deeds, for the years of anguish that he put me through by committing those crimes.

How can one love someone that does those things? Killing innocent people because of their blood? Letting them be tortured, raped, and brutally murdered?

Why, even knowing all the gruesome details of his deeds, can't I seem to stop loving him?

In the end, it doesn't matter how many times Ron or someone else asks that question, I can't seem too answer it. So I continue out through the door, walking away from all the unanswered questions that seem to gather.

Even if I had an answer to the question, I'm certain that Ron wouldn't like it.

* * *

"Let me get this straight," Kingsley begins, his calm tone a strange contrast to his confused and frustrated expression. "You want to free Draco Malfoy?"

I take a deep breath and answer, fully aware of how utterly ridiculous I make myself. "Yes."

Kingsley sighs deeply, furrowing his brow as he observes me. "You are fully aware of the crimes he is accused of, are you not?"

I nod. "I have been in the head of the investigation for four years. Yes, I consider myself fully ware of his deeds."

The Minister shakes his head softly in confusion. "Then I am baffled. On what grounds do you believe that he could be released?"

"He helped me escape from the dungeons at Malfoy Manor," I state the obvious, but it doesn't have quite the expected effect on Kingsley. He only nods softly.

"We know that, but I doubt that will be enough to convince the Judge and the jury."

"Think about it," I begin again, more frustrated now. "He hated me for all his life. He had no emotional ties to me whatsoever," I state, feeling a slight ache in my stomach and hoping to God that my words aren't true. "Still, he helped me escape, risking his own life as well as his family's."

Kingsley nods attentively, indicating that my words make sense to him. But he still doesn't look convinced.

I begin again. "If it weren't for him, I'd most likely be dead by now, and Voldemort would have won the war. Malfoy may have done many horrendous things, but if it weren't for him, we would have lost the war." I exhale deeply, concluding my speech and crossing my fingers, waiting for Kingsley's reply.

Kingsley remains silent for a long while, his brow intensely knitted as he stares out into oblivion. Finally, after I have been holding my breath for what seems like ages, he turns back to me.

"Are you willing to present your statement as evidence for the case?" he asks softly, piercing me with his gaze.

My words gets stuck in my throat, and for a second I feel like I'm suffocating. But I nod determinedly. My distaste for public appearances will not hinder me from saving Draco.

It seems that Kingsley senses my distress, even as I do not voice it. Not that surprising really, after all I have grown to know him pretty well through the years.

"You will not have to testify in court, just before the Judge and the jury. Overall, I think it is better if the matter is kept as private as possible. Unfortunately it is required that the trial is open for the public and the press, since we are handling the issue of a Death Eater."

I feel some relief wash over me, it had been my worst fear to have to talk in front of the press and a hundred complaining civilians. The open trial is discouraging, but not unexpected. Trials of Death Eaters are always open nowadays, to prevent possible shoddy proceedings.

"That is fine," I therefore state, already getting up from my seat when I recall another issue. "Can the trial be moved up from the 21st?"

Kingsley looks surprised, looking through some of the papers scattered over his desk. "I have to discus the issue with Judge Grachev. If possible, it might be able to move it up to next week, but I cannot promise anything without the Judge's consent."

I nod, breathing deeply once. "Thank you, Kingsley. I really appreciate it."

The Minister nods, a friendly smile on his face. "Always a pleasure, Harry. I will contact you as soon as I have any information."

I bid my farewells, and leave the office, hurrying out of the Ministry before the rumour has time to spread that I paid a visit to the Minister.

So far, I have done what I can. It might not be enough to let me breathe easily yet, but I am able to fall asleep that night with a somewhat lighter heart.

* * *

If possible, I feel even worse than I did in the dungeons at the Manor. A fever is plaguing me, causing me to roll and thrash in my sleep, the movement re-opening my wounds every night. I have been moved to a white room, much like in a hospital but with a door consisting of prison bars. As if I were in any condition to escape.

If this is what will kill me, I would have preferred the dungeons. An ugly Mudblood nurse comes in here once an hour, feeding me some disgusting potion that supposedly is lowering my fever. I haven't experienced it to have any effect yet, but apparently it is supposed to very efficient. Bullshit, if you ask me. They just like torturing me in their own simple, subtle way. Hypocrites, the lot of them. At least I was honest about what I was doing.

Then there is the food. The disgusting chicken soup what they are trying to force me to eat, not realising that I haven't swallowed a bite of food in months, my throat being so raw and my body so weak that I had to be kept alive with nutrition spells and potions. The nurse is forced to do that too, since I refuse to touch the soup, but she still insists on bringing the vile-smelling concoction into the room three times a day.

Still, what I long for most is not being able to eat, proper food, freedom, or even death. It is being able to tell these fucking morons where they belong. But the fact that I haven't used my voice for anything else than screaming for four months, leaves me somehow unable to start off a single sentence. I haven't lost my voice, that much is for certain, but to use it through words seems somehow distant to me.

And in the end, what would I say? What could I possibly have to say to these people? Telling them to stop treating me, to stop trying to save my life and let me die with some dignity? As if they would listen to a word I said.

"Malfoy! Are you awake?"

Well, if I wasn't, now I am. I crack one open, observing the fool who decided to interrupt my silent reverie. A tall, dark-haired man, no doubt an Auror, is looking down at me. His expression is one of mixed loathing and fear, and I am utterly pleased of still awaking such a strong feeling, even as I'm lying immobile in a hospital bed.

When I do not answer, the Mudblood nurse standing behind the Auror speaks up. "He does not speak, Mr Jones," she mumbles, looking uncomfortable as she glances over at me. Jones looks a little uneasy himself, and just for the fun of it I finally open both of my eyes, sneering viciously at the Auror. He tries to not look disquieted at this as he speaks to me.

"I have come to inform you that your trial is to be held next Wednesday, three days from now, that is."

I cannot help the shocked expression that appears on my face for a second. _A trial? _I never expected to get one, as there can impossibly be any uncertainty over what I've done.

When I still do not answer, the man called Jones sighs irritably and continues. "I will then come here with a colleague, and we will escort you to the Ministry, where you will be questioned under the influence of Veritaserum."

If the situation was another, I would have jumped up and hexed the Auror into the next millennium for those words. As it is though, I am chained to a bed and physically unable to move. Therefore, all I can do is to try to keep the distaste and rage off my face.

Jones seems to have done what he was sent here to do, and does not linger. He gives me one last disgusted look before he turns on his heels and practically runs out through the door. The nurse, uneasy about being left alone with me, quickly takes my temperature before also leaving. When she does, I am finally able to in a deep exhale express the desperation that has washed over me.

_Veritaserum. _Being forced to spill my uttermost secrets. The ultimate disgrace.

And here I thought my life couldn't possibly get any worse.

**End of part III**


	4. A Rattle Comes the Rain

**Part IV**

**A Rattle Comes the Rain**

"Harry, Ron! Come on, let's sit here!"

Hermione gestures towards the first row in the audience. The Wizengamot is filled with people, and there is scarcely any room for three more people anywhere. But as soon as the name 'Harry' sounds through the room and I am recognised, three empty chairs appear out of nowhere in the middle of the front row.

"Thank Merlin you're famous!" Ron snorts, and strangely enough, this time I agree with him on the matter. If I weren't, we would never have gotten seats close enough to see anything of Draco's trial. In fact, if I weren't, Draco wouldn't even have a trial.

Sitting down in my seat, Hermione next to me on my right and Ron on my left, I feel the butterflies that have been stewing in my stomach for days starting to flutter worse than ever. While being proud of myself for being able to get the Ministry to hear Draco out, I know that the battle is far from won. Even after getting this far, my story about him helping me escape might not make up for any of his other deeds in front of the jury. The thought makes me so nervous I'm all but shivering from the distress.

Luckily, we arrived so late that I don't have to wait for long. Suddenly the double doors fly open and Jones and Conway enter the room, followed by a skinny and dirty figure which only the sight of makes my breath catch in my throat.

They enter, leading Draco in chains into the room. I can hardly believe it is him. Every step he takes looks like it requires an immense amount of energy, and a gauze has been wrapped around his head. His hair has been cropped very short, making him unable to hide behind even that in the eyes of justice, and the fact that they haven't even given him a clean set of robes angers me more than I care to admit even to myself.

Now he walks past these rows of hateful people, trying to stand straight but even then crouching forward slightly, as if he might combust any minute. The wounds on his face have been cleaned, but lower lip is still marred with a huge gush that reaches down to his chin. A stitched three-inch wound traces along his eyebrow, and small scratches and cuts are visible all over his face. How the rest of his body looks, I don't even want to think about.

Still, it is not even his mauled appearance that disturbs me most right now. It's that look on his face, that cold, stern expression. That solid Malfoy-armour that he perfects even today, even as his darkest secrets are to be pulled from him by force. That infrangible shield that prevents him from losing focus, from looking around.

Prevents him from looking into the audience and seeing me. I shudder as he walks past me, as if his mere presence causes my body to react. And some part of my mind hates Draco for being able to ignore me like this, for not even noticing my presence, when the mere sight of him causes my breath to exhilarate.

I breathe deeply and manage to calm down somewhat, fighting to keep my face neutral. And thinking of that, I am struck by the urge to laugh out loud. Draco and I are playing the same game now, trying to keep our masks in place.

I only wish I could see through his.

* * *

"Stop dragging your feet, Malfoy!" Jones shouts at me as I stumble and nearly fall stepping over the threshold. "You won't get out of this one, no matter how you struggle."

Still crouching from my almost-fall, I turn and spit at the Auror, the most vicious sneer I can muster on my face. Jones stares at me in shock, his eyes wide from rage, and for a moment I think he might hit me. The only thing that seems to prevent him is his colleague, the blond man walking on my other side and staring at Jones with a look of reproach. Jones resorts to grabbing my arm violently and pulling me properly to my feet.

I stumble after the two Aurors, the shackles at my wrists sounding with a harsh ring every time I move, reminding me of my existence and keeping me from falling back into the oblivion I have spent the last months of my life in.

We walk through the halls of the Ministry, anyone and everyone walking by turning to stare at me. That bastard Jones walks taller than is natural for him, looking mighty proud and superior, his boasted height making me look even smaller next to him. He tugs at the chains every time I get left a little behind, causing me to lose my balance yet again. The ignoramus acts as if I choose to do it, as if I could walk any faster, as if I am throwing myself to the ground on purpose.

As if I wanted to humiliate myself further in front of all these morons of the Ministry.

Brutally I am led through the Ministry to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Feeling all the spiteful glances on me, I try to keep my head held high, my eyes focused steadily straight ahead as I walk through the corridors. Not even when we reach the Wizengamot do I give myself permission to look around. From inside the great room I can hear a loud buzz of noise, as if the whole audience of the Quidditch World Cup is gathered in there. I feel a shiver threatening to make it's way down my back, but I repress it. I am a Malfoy, and as such I do not show weakness in front of such peasants as the vultures that have gathered here. Therefore, as Jones opens the large double doors into the room, I keep my face as calm and collected as I can manage, walking proudly into the room in spite of the shackles.

A massive wall of sound hits me as the doors open, but I keep my face neutral, erasing all the noise from around me as I am led down the walk between the benches. Each seat in the audience is occupied, and every one turns to stare at me as I walk past. Some mutter curses and hexes under their breaths, while others shout them out loudly, but I manage to remain unmoved. These people are nothing to me. They can do nothing to hurt me anymore.

"Up here, Malfoy," Jones' partner orders, nudging me towards a small platform, holding a massive chair of stone, adorned with shackles for both hands and feet. I take a deep breath as I step up onto the platform. A sting of burning pain goes through my legs at the bending of my knees, and I bite back a whimper. I will not give them the satisfaction of witnessing my pain.

"Sit!" Jones hisses, and I comply, albeit giving him a vicious sneer. The Aurors release my shackles, immediately fastening the ones from the chair to my wrists and ankles. Then they step away, each to their own place beside the platform.

From my chair I can see the entire hall, the audience as well as the still empty jury's seats. I do not look around unnecessarily though, instead I keep my eyes focused on a invisible dot in the distance, careful not to stray from it. I am no circus animal, and I will never willingly be these peoples entertainment by letting them see how terrified I am.

What feels like hours, but may in fact be only mere minutes later, the noise of the crowd suddenly quiets down. I see movement in a smaller doorway on the other side of the room, and indeed, here is the jury. The rows in the podium are quickly being filled with witches and wizards, all clad in the same plum-coloured robes and looking unsettlingly grim. Nothing I hadn't expected. In the middle of the prominent first row sit's an important-looking man, watching me with particular interest. I gather he must be the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, the _Judge_, so to speak. Grachev, I think his name was. Very young to be the Head of the department, he is barely in his forties. I resist the urge to snort.

When the noise has ceased completely, Grachev clears his throat. "Draco Malfoy," he begins, his deep voice sounding impressively through the room. "You have been accused for murder, torture, the persecution of Muggleborns as well as Muggles, siding with Dark Wizards, and plotting against the Ministry of Magic. How do you plead?"

I do not answer. It is pointless, really, as I will be put under effect of Veritaserum soon enough anyway. The tension in the room increases with each second I remain silent, and I feel myself shrink under the microscope of these peoples gazes. Still, I fight to remain unmoved.

"Very well, then," Grachev mutters disappointedly, gesturing towards the side of the room where two unfamiliar Aurors are waiting, carrying a small wooden chest between them. The two men approach me, their steps echoing against the stone floor. I feel the hair on my neck rise, and my nails digging painfully into my palms. In spite of myself I feel myself shiver from fear. As much as my instincts tell me to flee, I remain still, knowing a struggle would end in nothing but fruitless humiliation.

The men have reached my chair and put the chest down beside me. I notice how they try very hard not to look me in the eyes. Their fear to face me gives me some strength, and I stare at them both pointedly to make them as uncomfortable as possible.

"Administer the Veritaserum," I hear Grachev's voice, and before I have time to react a sweaty, hot hand has grabbed me roughly by the chin and forced my jaw slack. I don't have the time to do anything, before I feel three drops of tasteless liquid land on my tongue. Then the hand lets go of my jaw, and the two men step away. I fight the urge to spit, knowing it wouldn't do any good.

For a moment I wonder if they used the wrong potion. I do not feel any different. I thought I would experience a loss of self-awareness or lose touch of reality in some way. But I feel entirely the same as before.

"State your name," Grachev orders, breaking me out of my thoughts.

"Draco Lucius Abraxas Malfoy," I hear a terrible, raspy voice answer, long before I even realise it is I who have spoken. And I immediately understand the vileness of this potion. It allows me to be fully aware of myself and my surroundings. I just don't have any control of what I say.

I notice that a Court Scribe to the jury podium's left is writing down every word that is said. Something that disturbs me almost as much as being under the influence of Veritaserum.

"Are you a Death Eater?" is the next question. And just like before, that unfamiliar voice, that hoarse, strange voice that does _not_ belong to me answers:

"Yes."

_That couldn't have been a surprise to anyone, really._

"Why did you join He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?"

"Father told me to, and I did, even though I was barely sixteen at the time and far too young. I failed my mission, and spent the next years making up for my mistake." The words leave my mouth numbly, no emotion of any kind attached to them. I wonder if the reason is the Veritaserum, or the fact that I have a hard time feeling anything at all when thinking about that time in my life.

The Judge furrows his brow at me. "What was your mission?"

"To kill Albus Dumbledore."

Another shock goes through the audience, the gasps sound louder this time. Grachev ignores it.

"But you failed?"

"Yes."

"Have you ever killed anyone?"

"Yes," is the immediate answer, and I do not even bother to try and fight it. I have no control of myself, and all I now can seem to do is marvel at the fact that these words I hear spoken are actually coming from me.

"Muggles or Muggleborns?"

"Both."

"How many?"

"I don't know." _Well, that sounded bad. _I can hear the sounds of shocked intakes of breath that erupt from every corner of the room. As if murder is more justified if one keeps count of his victims.

The Judge's voice doesn't seem affected, which somehow is a small relief. "Why did you kill those people?"

That was an unexpected question. But as before, there is no need for me to think about the answer. "Because I was told to. Sometimes it was previously decided, sometimes there happened to be more people there than expected. It did not matter, we weren't allowed to leave witnesses." My voice gets even raspier by the end of the sentence, and I am forced to double over in a fit of coughing. I spit a drop of blood down onto the floor before I am able to sit up straight again.

Grachev's expression doesn't change, but he takes a longer break before he continues. This time, the topic he begins is unexpected.

"Is it true that you held Harry Potter hostage during a period of ninety-eight days four years ago?"

"Yes." Again, the words leave my mouth without delay. Shocked gasps are heard from everywhere, and I am surprised to find that it seems hardly anyone knew about this. The Ministry did a great job covering it up.

"Is it also true that you helped him escape?"

This time the audience doesn't wait of my response to react. Disbelieving comments are heard from everywhere around me, and I don't know whether to feel offended that they don't believe me to be capable of anything even meagrely 'good', or proud that my Malfoy-image has remained so thoroughly intact.

Still, the poison in my veins leaves me no option of what to answer.

"Yes."

"Why?" Grachev asks immediately, efficiently silencing the voices in the room, all eager to hear my answer.

At this point, only one thought roams my brain.

_Shit. _

"I did not want him to die. I loved him."

**End of part IV**


	5. Damage Done

**Part V  
****Damage Done **

"I did not want him to die. I loved him."

The words slip out of Draco's mouth so easily, so incautiously that it takes a moment for me to register them. When I finally do, it takes an additional moment to realise that what Draco just said has to be true.

_He loved me._

I am overwhelmed by the contradicting urges to either hit him or kiss him, but before I have time to do either I become painfully conscious of where I am. I blink furiously a few times to break the disbelieving stare I have held on Draco for the last minutes, and turn to my side to see every face in the room watching me. Hermione is staring at me, mouthing silent words that are never able to pass over her lips. I think this is the first time I have seen her completely speechless. I open my mouth to say something, but just as I do, a raging laugh is heard from behind me.

I turn around to find Ron next to me, nearly doubled over with laughter. He is clutching his stomach frantically and gasping for air.

"Malfoy, he- He _actually_-" Ron wheezes, his sentences cut short by his uncontrollable roars of laughter. For the first time in my life, I truly long to hit my best friend.

But as my eyes shift briefly back towards Draco, I forget all about Ron.

Because unexpectedly, for the first time tonight, Draco is looking directly at me.

I almost choke. The anger, confusion, and desperation shines now clearly in his metal eyes, piercing me like knives and making it difficult for me to breathe. His mask has fallen at the shock of seeing me, his soul laid bare for everyone to see at the most unfortunate moment. The tension in the room is unbearable.

It only lasts for a second. Then he turns away, blinks, and when he opens his eyes, his shield is again in place. It does not matter how much I stare at him , thinking that if I only do so he certainly _must_ look my way. Draco only stares into oblivion, his eyes focused on something in the distance, his face unmoved even as I see Judge Grachev move to speak again.

"Why did you not go with him?" Grachev asks the question calmly, trying desperately to bypass the stir that has arisen in the room.

Trying to ignore Ron, still gasping for air beside me, my eyes dart back to Draco in wait for his answer. But there is no reaction, no change."I did not seek to join the Light. I merely let Potter go."

It is the truth, as I would have known it even without hearing him say it under the influence of Veritaserum. Still, the words turn a blade in my chest. For four years I had hoped, foolishly and desperately, that there was another reason for him to stay behind. That perhaps he wasn't thoroughly evil. And now, knowing his feelings for me, it hurts even more thinking that he stayed voluntarily.

"Did He-Who-Must-No-Be-Named find out what you did?"

I feel the anticipation build within me. This is what I have been waiting for. To know what happened to him, to find out the truth that I have been wondering about for forty-eight long months. To finally know how he ended up in the state that I found him in.

"Not at first," is the answer, Draco's voice suddenly sounding a little more alive, even a bit snotty. I feel a slight smile creep over my face as I realise that he is proud of himself.

"They had no evidence. I left no sign of my own magical signature on anything, and I was able to keep silent about it, even when interrogated under _Crucio_. I was never a real suspect. After all, since Father died, I had been in the Dark Lord's inner circle."

The light tone of his speech runs down my spine in shivers. I can not imagine how someone can speak so frivolously about his father's death and being tortured by his own allies.

"What happened then?"

"My mother got ill."

From having a superior and snotty tinge mere seconds ago, Draco's voice has now somehow shrunk to sounding, if possible, even weaker than before.

"She had been unstable since before Father died, and afterwards she just kept getting worse. Then one day she threw a fit, and the Dark Lord…" Draco's voice dies out for a second, but the Veritaserum prevents him from stopping. "He tortured her. Usually he stops quickly, but now he just kept going on and on, and she kept screaming-" He takes a deep breath. "And then she told him. She told him she'd seen how I disappeared into the dungeons that night, a wrought iron fork from the fire place in my hand."

Suddenly his eyes turn completely vacant, and if his mouth wasn't still moving and words weren't still slipping from his lips, I'd think he'd died.

"And the Dark Lord smiled- and he killed Mother. I was disarmed and Immobilised, so I couldn't move or speak. My wand was then taken from me, and after that they brought in Astoria-"

"Who is Astoria?" Grachev interrupts, his brow knitted in concentration.

For a second the room remains silent, the only thing hear being the frantic scribbling of the Court Scribe.

Then Draco speaks. "Astoria Greengrass. My wife." He ignores the intakes of breath from the audience and continues. "They brought her in, and used _Crucio_ on her until her nervous system broke down. She died, along with my unborn son."

Suddenly my brain is in a stand-still. His son? Draco married that woman and had a _son?_ The thought, so contradicting to the fact that he actually _loved _me then,iswrenching my stomach into a tight knot.

A long silence follows Draco's last sentence. It takes several moments for everyone in the audience and the jury to gather themselves.

"What happened after that?" Judge Grachev finally asks, his face twisted in a mixture of anticipation and dread of what he is to hear next.

"I was beaten up and tortured, interrogated, and thrown in a cell. I was close to death several times, but they kept me alive with potions and spells. Even after the battle where the Dark Lord was finally killed, my aunt didn't give up. She kept dragging me along, up until she got bored with me trying to die all the time. She left me in the Manor, knowing I was too weak to ever get out on my own. That's when the Aurors found me." After those words, Draco sags back into the stone chair, looking exhausted. Be it reliving his hell, or having to share his inner thoughts with a crowd of people who only want to see him hang, but he looks like he might spontaneously combust any second.

Judge Grachev contemplates for a long moment before he speaks again.

"The jury will now withdraw to discuss the verdict." he says, standing up from his seat. The rest of the plum-clad witches and wizards imitate the movement, all moving simultaneously back through the door from which they entered.

"Merlin, Harry!" Ron exclaims from beside me. "Can you believe that-"

I interrupt him by rising from my seat and heaving myself over the low wooden wall that separates the audience from the rest of the court-display. A loud murmur is heard from the other people, but I barely register it. I am hardly realising what I myself am doing, all I know is that I am walking across the stone floor, thinking the same thing over and over again:

_He can't go back to Azkaban._

I can feel his eyes on me as I move towards the jury's door, and fight not to look back at him. Reaching for the door handle, I am forced to take a deep breath.

I know perfectly well what Draco has done. Better than anyone, perhaps. I know that he probably does not deserve anything but a lifetime in Azkaban. But in spite of everything, seeing him like this, I have no choice but to reach out to him. How could anyone deserve to go through what has happened to him? How could I ever leave him to such a fate, after he saved me?

After he told me he loved me?

"Mr Potter!" an older woman of the jury exclaims as I slam the door open, and immediately all eyes are on me. They do not look pleased.

"Mr Potter," Grachev begins in a reprimanding manner from his place at the top of a long, heavy, dark table. "You are under no authority to be here. I have to ask you to leave immediately."

For a second I consider taking my leave, but I am quickly able to convince myself that if there is one moment for me to abuse my fame, then this is it.

"I apologize, Mr Grachev," I state, looking with respect at both the Judge and the other members of the Wizengamot. "But I must ask for permission to make some additions to my testimony." I utter the words with respect, but leave no possibility for a denying answer. After all, one does not refuse a request of the Boy Who Lived.

"Very well," Grachev says sourly, after a moment of pretence consideration. "What do you have to say?"

I breathe in deeply, smothering the voices within me that are telling me how ridiculously I am behaving.

"I know what Draco Malfoy is responsible of. I know every detail of what he has done. Still, I find myself forced to plead for his release."

I can barely manage to look the jury in the eyes. To my relief I find that while they do look concerned, they don't look completely averse to my statement. Most of them look confused, and I don't need guess why. Why would Harry Potter defend one of his worst enemies, a known Death Eater and a Malfoy, to this length? Especially when that particular Death Eater just professed his love for him in the presence of two hundred witches and wizards?

A very good question. One I have no way of answering.

The same older woman who spoke when I entered clears her throat and looks at me with a knitted brow.

"This is no small matter, Mr Potter," she says gravely, regarding some paperwork before her on the table. "While we do agree on Mr Malfoy's integrity in helping you escape from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, his other deeds are irreversibly unforgivable."

She looks like she would like to continue, but I hurry to cut her off.

"If he hadn't released me, Voldemort would have most likely won the war!" I exclaim, watching every member of the Wizengamot shiver and pale at the mentioning of that dreaded name. I grab the opportunity to continue.

"His actions in the war are indeed horrifying, but you cannot deny that we owe him the victory over the greatest Dark wizard of all times!"

"That does not change the fact that he has admitted to every crime he is accused of," a skinny old man on the right side of Grachev speaks up. I feel the urge to curse him, preferably with an Unforgivable.

"He was raised to do those things! Weren't you all raised to believe the things that you stand for today? If someone threatened your beliefs, would not you defend them?" The words leave my mouth without much consideration, and I wonder myself if I actually believe them or not. Be that how it may, I finally seem to be getting through to the jury. Many of the members of the Wizengamot have lowered their heads slightly in what almost looks like shame, nervously gazing sideward at each other. I seem to have struck a nerve.

Seeing the doubt rising within them, I seize my opportunity. "Mr Malfoy was only a child of sixteen at the time. He did what he was told to do, as would have many others. Should he not be taught another way, instead of being punished for the foolish mistakes he made as a child?" I breathe out, anxiously waiting the Wizengamot's reply.

A pale woman with maroon hair at the lower end of the table is the first to speak up. "I think Mr Potter is right," she says, her voice small and nervous, but carrying well through the room. When the rest of the members look at her questioningly, she shrugs slightly. "If I had been forced to live my life as I chose it when I was sixteen, I would hardly be sitting where I am right now."

Some of the other witches and wizards nod in agreement, and I bite back the urge to cheer out loud. Grachev looks doubtful as he turns to look at the woman. "What do you propose then, Camille?"

The woman named Camille contemplates for a moment before she answers. "I think we should take away his wand."

_What?_

"His wand?" I echo, the disbelief evident in my voice.

"Yes, his wand," Camille repeats, looking very satisfied with herself. Suddenly I don't like her half as much as I did a minute ago.

"Of course, he would have to be set in partial probation before his release into society," she continues offhandedly, as if only thinking out loud to herself. "Naturally he would have to be watched for a time, to make sure that he can behave himself and adjust properly to a life without magic."

My thoughts run wildly as I listen to her words, and I pray that the other members of the Wizengamot won't see this as a good solution. Unfortunately, most of them seem pleased, some even look quite smug. I hate them in this moment, pretending to be the face of justice while they thrive in the knowledge that they are taking away the magic of a fellow wizard. I look to Grachev, who seems to be my last hope.

"I think it's a good idea," the man says, and my mouth goes suddenly dry as I realise that I have just contributed in robbing Draco of the thing that means the most to him. While I have saved him from Azkaban, which is a much more horrifying fate, I doubt that Draco will see it in such a positive light.

"Who will be assigned to watch him?"

The question sounds through the air, seeming to ring in my head several times before I am able to gather the information. And I realise that if I can ever do anything to make amends with Draco, than this is it.

It's suicide. Shear madness. And I have no other option. The words are out of my mouth before I retain any presence of mind to prevent them.

"I'll do it."

**End of part V**


	6. Too Much of Nothing

**Part VI**

**Too Much of Nothing**

"I loved him."

Just like that, the words that I vowed to never say out loud leave my mouth. At those words, my life is over. I watch the eyes of every human being in the room expand into the size of saucers as they take in the words that cannot be anything but the truth. Three little words, causing such distortion.

But it is not until I hear a strangely familiar, roaring, vulgar laugh that I find my world shattered into pieces. I do not want to look, but I can't not do it. And when I do, my worst fear is confirmed.

Potter is staring at me, his eyes moist and shiny in disbelief and desperation, as he sits in the front row between a roaring Weasley and a stunned Mudblood.

For a split second all I can see, think, and feel, is him. Those green eyes disarm me completely, more than any spell, curse or potion ever could. But I gather myself quickly, focusing on who I am, the situation I'm in, the pain from my injuries… anything to make myself able to look away from Potter.

And I do not look back. I let myself slip away into the cold oblivion of nothingness, the numb sensation of drowning in too many thoughts, leaving room for none in the end.

I know that I am asked questions. I know that my lips are moving, answering, spilling whatever secrets I have left. My mind is playing images of my mother, the Dark Lord, Astoria, and countless unrecognisable faces, and I feel my throat contract as the painful memories wash over me. But I have buried myself so far in my sub-consciousness that I do not hear the specific questions I am being asked, and I do not know my own answers.

In the end, it does not matter. Nothing that I say can make things worse.

"The jury will now withdraw to discuss the verdict."

A strange feeling of disbelief washes over me, and I am shook out of my trance. For the first time since this session began I am not wholly convinced that I know what my verdict will be. I never expected the jury to have to consider how they will punish me.

Though naturally, it cannot be worse than Azkaban.

As the plum-clad jury moves out through the door, a loud murmur begins in the audience. I gaze over to see what the ruckus us about, and I can't believe what I am seeing. Potter, the proverbial idiot, just swans across the floor and walks through the Wizengamot door like he owns the place. Without being kicked out! Of all the insolence…

And people dare to call _me_ arrogant!

They are gone for a long time. I try to sit still and look dignified, a hard task when being placed on this cold, uncomfortable stone. Occasionally I glance over to the Mudblood and the Weasel, who both look just as confused and anxious as I feel. I guess Potter's display was not part of the original program.

Then finally the door opens, and the jury re-enters. Potter walks behind them, his head slightly bowed, clearly trying not to look anyone in the eye. I sigh, bracing myself for my verdict. Azkaban. It can't really be anything else. They are even more ignorant than I think them to be if they let me go. I would probably have received a Dementor's kiss, if they still practised that.

Faced with me, I'm sure they wish they did.

What bothers me is Potter. He hurries across the floor, refusing to look at anyone, even ignoring his friends' questioning faces. His face does not hold the sadness or disbelief of hearing a death sentence, but rather an embarrassed fear. Like a child, expecting to be scolded.

In spite of myself, I am affected by his odd behaviour, and doubt rises within me.

_What has he done now?_

"The Wizengamot has reached a verdict," Grachev announces, his facial expression betraying nothing of their conclusion. "Will the defendant please rise?"

I do so, standing on shaking legs and holding my breath. I gaze over at Potter, who still refuses to lift his gaze from the floor. The Mudblood has reached out and put a comforting hand on his shoulder, looking very worried. As if Potter is the one on trial here.

"Draco Malfoy has been found guilty as charged for partaking in several incidents involving killing Muggles and Muggleborns, as well as being a marked Death Eater," Grachev announces, pausing for breath. The air in the room shifts immediately, as if everyone holding their breaths are now able to breathe freely. Evil has once again been defeated and condemned. Bravo.

"However," the Judge continues, and the tension flows immediately back into the room. "Mr Malfoy was a mere child when he was guided into such actions, and as such could not be held completely responsible for his actions."

_Excuse me? A child? I was as old as Potter, and no one is calling him a stupid brat!_

"In addition to that, Mr Malfoy's actions in promoting the victory over He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named are undeniable." Grachev pauses again, probably for nothing more than the dramatic effect, looking directly at me. "Therefore we have found that it is proper for Mr Malfoy to be released, and to give him the opportunity to amend his deeds."

_What?_

It seems the crowd shares my astonishment. From all corners of the room outbursts and curses are heard. Grachev silences them all by raising a hand, indication that he is not finished. It takes a moment for the audience to quiet down, but Grachev waits patiently.

"This release includes a 60-day partial probation, under which time Mr Malfoy will be watched to assure that he does not abuse the courts generosity. Mr Malfoy will also be refused the right to retain a wand."

Suddenly the air that I breathe becomes the air that I choke on. I feel as if I am drowning, and I have to fight to keep myself from hyperventilating. An excruciating pain shoots through my entire body, an empty feeling pulsing in my chest. And it has nothing to do with my injuries.

I hardly hear Grachev when he continues: "Mr Malfoy will not be allowed to use a wand, his own or anyone else's, even if one is willingly offered to him."

_Not any wand. No exceptions. _

It's not as if I know where my own wand is, so at least I don't have to watch them snap it before me. But the thought that I would never hold a wand again was much less terrifying when I thought I would be locked up in Azkaban for the rest of my life. That was something to be expected, a possibility I have been prepared for my whole life.

But this… To be cruelly sent back into that world, without my family, my friends, my _life_… Even without my wand. What purpose does my life serve then?

I've spent my whole life being taught how despicable and pathetic people without magic are. Now I find myself being condemned to a life slightly better than a Squib's.

The irony is not all that appealing.

I feel as if I'm watching this happen to me from outside a glass ball. As if these things aren't really true, aren't actually happening to me. I know that my legs are swaying, that I am barely able to stand upright anymore. Yet I do not feel it. I feel as if I am just witnessing everything, somehow partaking while remaining on the outside. As if in a dream.

But there is no one to wake me up. No one to save me. And I have never been as frustrated as I am now, realising that this time I can do nothing to save myself. As if through a cloud I hear the Judge finalize the verdict. I blink a few times, trying to bring myself to care about where I will end up, where I will serve out my probation, who will be assigned to watch me. Anything really, besides my wand.

_Don't think about the wand. Don't break down. Not now. Not yet._

Trying to suppress the hopelessness threatening to overflow within me, I gaze around to find some, _any _interest in my surroundings. My eyes find Potter, who is still staring at me intently. For the first time since I heard my verdict, I recall the Golden Boy's existence. He notices my face fixed on him, and fidgets uncomfortably under my gaze. And somehow, as I stare into his apologetic yet relieved emerald eyes, the whole part he has played in this dawns on me.

And I feel like screaming, because I suddenly know exactly where I will end up.

_Damn him. Damn him straight to Hell._

* * *

"Draco?" Potter's voice sounds from beside me as we step out from the fire place into a small, sparsely ornate living room. "There is a guest bedroom down the hall, you can-"

"Couldn't you just leave me alone?" The words are out of my mouth before I realise it. They catch Potter off guard, and it takes him a moment before he manages to answer.

"What? I just saved you from Azkaban!" he croaks, sounding almost as desperate to make himself believe those words as he is to convince me.

"I was not yours to save!"

I still do not look at him, I _cannot _look at him. Instead I gaze around, observing my surroundings. This is obviously a Muggle house. It feels strangely empty, as if the lack of magical objects makes it dead and eerie. Potter's obstinate silence makes it even worse.

"I would have rather stayed in Azkaban and kept what shred of dignity I had left than to be dragged in front of the Wizengamot and humiliated in front of hundreds of people!" I state, not raising my voice the slightest but letting my furiousness seep through my words.

"You would have rather spent the rest of your life in prison than to experience one day of embarrassment?" Potter asks disbelievingly. I have to restrain myself from hitting him. Taking a deep breath, I finally turn to face him.

"Do you actually believe that people will forget this incident in a _day_? A week? A month, even?"

When he does not answer, but merely looks away, I continue. "No, they won't!" I spit at him viciously, despise tainting my voice. "Therefore, instead of spending a month or a year in Azkaban until I died, I will now have to suffer through a lifetime of humiliation and scorn. They will _never_ forget."

I narrow my eyes at Potter, and he shrinks under my gaze. I can only sneer. "Is that really the life that you would have chosen for yourself?"

He swallows loudly, desperation and a silent apology in his expression. "I couldn't let them-" he stammers, trying again: "I…I just wanted to save you."

And I snap.

"You cannot save _everyone_, Potter!" I roar at him, my dignity be damned. "Thanks to your fucking hero-complex, you've now destroyed _my_ life as well as your own!"

Potter furrows his brow. "What are you talking about?" he asks perplexed.

I don't even bother to try to stifle the contemptuous snort that escapes me. "Merlin, you are so naïve. You don't think that after the word spreads about me saying… what I said in there," I begin, stumbling over the words that must not be mentioned. "and you then taking me in to _live _with you, that certain rumours will start to circulate?"

Potter immediately turns as white as a sheet, and I sneer victoriously.

"There's nothing odd about that," he says quickly. "Anyone would have done the same."

A pathetic attempt of denial, typical Potter. I raise an eyebrow at him. "Oh really? If I had let Weasley out of the dungeons, do you think he would have volunteered to put up with me for 60 days? Do you think he even would have fought that hard to get me a fucking trial?"

The silence that follows indicates that I have finally gotten my point across. Potter stares at his shoes, a faint flush on his face. I can almost hear his brain trying to work through the issue. A pointless struggle, really.

"So you see, Potter," I say, unable to stop myself from taunting him further as I move towards the door to the hallway. "You're paying a high price for thinking you can change me. For thinking that I want to be changed."

Stalking out through the door, I do not hear if he answers me or not. A small voice inside my head scolds me for being so ungrateful. I ignore it. Good intentions be damned, Potter is still an ignorant fool, still trying to save every poor unfortunate soul that crosses his path. And even after all this time, after all that has happened, he still does not understand that no matter how much he tries, he cannot save me from myself.

**End of part VI**


	7. Life on Mars

**Part VII**

**Life on Mars**

I cannot sleep in this house. It's not that I am disturbed by water running through the pipes or the sound of rats from within the walls. On the contrary, the house is completely silent. Like the calm before the storm, except that no matter how long I hold my breath, the storm never arises.

Potter doesn't seek me out after our fight. I hear him ascending the stairs upstairs and a door slam shut. Then nothing. Nothing to focus on, nothing to distract me from my own thoughts. After laying restlessly in the bed for a long time, I get up and quietly exit the room.

The house is quite old, but the interior is modern. I don't like it one bit. All around me there seems to be nothing but white walls, white doors, white closets and cabinets. A tad of beige, eggshell, or black here and there, but that is it. The living room is simple; two armchairs in front of the fireplace and a couch facing another wall where a big black box is standing, placed on a low table. I sneer disdainfully.

Everything _screams _Muggle.

I can't imagine why Potter would choose to live in a place like this. I look out of the window to see a wide street with high raised pavements, old stone houses in straight lines down the hill as far as I can see. Where the hell am I?

Looking around, I spot a pile of newspapers on the coffee table by the couch. Sitting down on the tan sofa, I reach out for the paper on top of the pile.

_The Bristol Evening Post. _Ah, I had a feeling I wasn't in London anymore. I guess I am just lucky to still be within the UK.

I sigh deeply, exhaustion suddenly taking over me. I lean back against the couch.

What am I supposed to do? Why am I here?

It feels so strange, so surreal, sleeping under the same roof with Potter like this. I keep thinking that if I listen intently enough, I can hear the house breathing with him.

This is the last place I thought I'd ever find myself in. Why he has taken me in, I can't imagine. Could it be just his famous hero-complex? Or an excessive guilt trip?

Or could he still love me?

A small spark of hope rises within me as the though passes through my brain. I smother it immediately. I refuse to be dragged into some foolish romantic fantasy set alight by a few stolen moments between two teenage boys.

Four years ago it was different. We were two lost boys, grateful for what little human contact we found through each other in that dungeon. Desperate times, desperate deeds. I always knew it could not last. I knew what my mission was, what I had to sacrifice for it. Potter was part of that sacrifice. Letting him go was not easy, but it was what I had to do. He had his destiny, I had mine.

Now he has fulfilled his destiny, done his duty. And what about me?

My destiny, if I ever had one, has disappeared somewhere in all the curses, the blood, the terrible screams that seem to be forever present in the dept of my mind. Sometime during those years I lost track of what it was I was doing it all for. My own beliefs? My family? The Malfoy name? Those things that I have never doubted. Things I still believe in.

Things that I lost because of the fickleness of this world and the people in it.

So what do I live for now? What does Potter expect me to fight for?

* * *

I hear him moving around downstairs. I feel the shadow of a smile on my lips. It seems that neither of us is able to sleep.

After a while the house grows quiet again, but I still haven't heard the door to the guest room click shut. In spite of not really wanting to face him right now, I decide to check it out. After all, who knows what Draco could be up to. I just hope he didn't put his finger in an electric socket or something.

I sneak down the stairs into the dark first floor. The kitchen is empty, and so does the living room seem at first sight. But I look twice, and see the pale moonlight falling on a blond head, barely visible over the back of the couch. Almost fearfully I creep closer and peer over the back of the furniture, only to find Malfoy completely asleep. He has glided down a bit, his whole body slouching limply like a doll on the sofa. His head has fallen back against the back of the couch, dark eyelashes gracing his pale cheeks and his mouth open just so-

He is so fucking beautiful.

I am barely able to stop myself from reaching forth and touching him. I probably couldn't if in that moment my eyes didn't fall on the cut down his lip and the other scratches on his face. He has taken the gauze off his head, leaving a bloody gash visible on his temple. Still in his dirty black robes, Draco looks like he has been shipped here directly from Azkaban. Technically, he has. Only making a stop at the Ministry.

Christ, he must be exhausted. My chest contracts almost painfully as I think about everything he has gone through. Seeing his face now, so peaceful, so angelic, I can't but help to believe that I made the right decision. I don't care if he is angry at me and screams at me, I don't care even if he constantly makes me so furious that I want to kill him.

If I am able to give him a place when he can sleep this peacefully after all he has been through, it's worth it.

If I am able to see him when he looks like this, it's all worth it.

* * *

A few pale rays of sunlight shine through the thin cotton curtains and wake me up. As I first open my eyes I feel very disoriented, before I realise where I am. I sit up, realising that while my back is sore from sleeping in a sitting position, I probably haven't slept that well in months.

A scent of toast reaches me from somewhere, and I turn to look at the door leading to the kitchen. Potter is sitting by a small table, peacefully munching his bread.

"Mornin'," he murmurs, briefly looking up from behind the morning paper as I stalk into the kitchen. I raise an eyebrow at him, but he does not react. Instead he keeps chewing his toast, looking completely neutral, as if nothing happened last night. I sigh irritated, planning to ignore him at least until I get a cup of coffee.

But when looking around in the kitchen, I realise that might not be as easy as I'd thought. Potter's house is indeed a Muggle one. As is his kitchen. Properly quipped with several different-looking oddly shaped boxes that supposedly have some important practical use. Everything smells of plastic. I suppress the urge to retch, but cannot help the sneer that slithers onto my face as I observe a particularly nasty-looking box.

"Don't like the espresso machine, do you?" Potter's humorous voice is heard. As I turn around to retort, I find him immediately behind me and my face mere inches from his, his emerald eyes watching me intently. _He has grown past me_, is the only thought I manage before I am overwhelmed by the closeness of his body. It takes me only two seconds to react and step away, but it's two seconds too long. My heart is already fluttering irregularly.

"Coffee?" Potter asks when I do not answer.

I nod stiffly. "Yes."

He walks over to another machine the kitchen counter. "This is a coffee maker," he says over his shoulder, grinning at me. "it brews your coffee automatically. You just have to load it with water and ground coffee beans."

I watch him load the machine, and suppress my slight horrification when it starts having growling, threatening noises. In a minute however, I see the black liquid starting to drop into the pot below.

I sneer at Potter, who has returned to his seat at the table. "You know, a house elf would make that much faster."

Potter only snorts at me. Then he takes a closer look, observing my clothes. "What are you wearing?"

I look down at myself. "My robes, obviously. Jeez, Potter, you saw them yesterday. They're not the cleanest, obviously-"

He frowns, interrupting me. "I didn't think of that…" he mutters, trailing off in the middle of his sentence. "Follow me."

Potter stalks out through the door, and I, albeit reluctant to obey anyone's orders, follow. We walk silently upstairs to the master bedroom. My legs ache and I walk slowly, and oddly enough Potter accommodates to my pace. It feels strange, but I feel as if a fragile truce has evolved between us sometime between yesterday and today. I just have to concentrate to not get too comfortable around Potter. That always leads to trouble.

The bedroom looks like the rest of the house; large, plain white walls, one larger window at one wall and a large bed at the other. The bedspread is in a deep Gryffindor red colour. I sneer disdainfully, though secretly pleased to find something familiar in this cold house.

"Wait a second," Potter says, walking over to a smaller door which must lead to the wardrobe. As he leans into the small closet, I look around. Potter does not have much stuff. One small bedside table at each side of the bed, a chest of drawers in front of the window. I step over to the dresser as I notice a set of framed photographs displayed upon it. Looking at the moving pictures, I am glad to finally see some wizarding things in this house. One is a picture of Potter with Weasley and Granger, probably from their fourth or fifth year at Hogwarts, waiving enthusiastically at the camera. The second one is of a very embarrassed Potter, shaking the Minister's hand as he accepts his Order of Merlin, First Class.

Then I look over to the third photograph. A small picture, taken of a red-headed woman somewhere that looks like a beach. She is looking at something in the distance, squinting in the sunlight. Her freckles show clearly on her tanned skin and her hair moves like fire as she looks over her shoulder and notices the photographer. She flashes a pretty smile at the camera, a slight blush creeping over her cheeks. I know that smile. It's such a smile you only smile for someone you're in love with.

It's the smile Ginny Weasley only smiles for Harry Potter.

I knew that they were dating sometime in school. I had heard rumours that they still went out occasionally. But I had no idea…

I look around in the room, and slowly but certainly my fear is confirmed. A red handbag lays placed on a small stool next to the dresser, a pair of stiletto pumps beside the stool. And when I turn towards Potter, I see a black dress on a hanger on the inside of the wardrobe door.

It's not as if this was wholly unexpected. And it's not as if I expected for something to happen between Potter and me. To tell the truth, this is for the best. He has the Weaslette now. He has no reason to want to fall back into old mistakes with me.

This is precisely how it should be. The fact that it makes me feel like someone is sawing through my chest is completely irrelevant.

"Here!" Potter exclaims, pulling his head out of the closet and holding forth a pile of clothes. "Sorry it took a while. You're somewhat smaller than I and-"

I want to retort that I am certainly not _small_, but a lump has gathered in my throat and I only manage to nod weakly as I take the clothes I am offered. I swallow a couple of times, efficiently suppressing the undermining feeling of despair that has risen within me. Rebuilding my façade, I look down at the clothes.

"Potter, what the hell are these?" I sneer, looking down on a pair of well-worn blue jeans.

Potter's shrug is not the proper apologetic gesture I expected to receive. "Sorry," he just mutters casually. "I think those are closest to your fit. We have to get you some clothes of your own, but you need something to wear to the store." He grins, looking at my torn and dirty robes. "You couldn't very well go anywhere in those, could you?"

In spite of the fact that I don't enjoy being made fun of, I feel the trace of a smile snake over my lips. For a second this scene feels so natural, so like home that I forget myself. Then that picture of the smiling Weaslette re-appears in my head, and I force myself back into reality.

"Where can I take a shower?" I ask curtly. The grin fades slowly from Potter's face, and it takes a moment for him to collect himself.

"Uhm… You can use the downstairs bathroom," he murmurs, turning around and heading out through the door. I follow quietly. The easy silence from before is completely gone, replaced with a heavy tension that seems to be gnawing at my insides. I felt a whole lot better when we were just enemies, instead of caught in this awkward formality. I wish to go back to the nemesis-stage so that I could stop thinking and just act out my anger. The problem is that I no longer know _how_ to go back. And truthfully, I'm not completely certain I want to.

Potter returns to the kitchen after showing me the bathroom. I try not to take too long, but as I have to remove the gauzes around my chest it takes quite a while. I hiss as I step under the shower, the hot water scaling my skin and creeping into my wounds. The painful satisfaction gives me the piece of mind to calm down and think clearly, something that seems downright impossible when I am around Potter. Somehow, even after all these years, he makes me lose my cool and control, even as he does nothing to provoke me.

What am I supposed to do here? Live in his house, borrow his clothes, learn how to use Muggle kitchen supplies until the 60 days are over? Then what? And what am I supposed to do when his little lady comes home? She can't be too happy about this arrangement. Where is she anyway?

Finally I am forced to step out from under the shower into the cold air. After taking a look at my wounds I decide I no longer need the gauzes, and instead turn to the pile of clothes I have left on the toilet seat. The black blazer is a little big, and makes me look even skinnier than before. The jeans are also a little on the larger side and hang loosely on my hips. Gazing into the mirror, I sigh. I look ghastly. With ill-fitting clothes that hang oddly on my undernourished frame, my face still marred with cuts and wounds, and my hair cropped short in a haircut bad enough to match Weasley's. I can only comfort myself with the fact that I'll hardly be seeing any old acquaintances today.

"Ready?" Potter asks as I step into the kitchen. He raises an eyebrow my appearance, and I find it incredibly demeaning knowing that someone with such poor sense of style as Potter can rightfully judge my exterior. I feel a faint flush creeping over my face as Potter keeps observing the marks on my face. "If someone asks, you were in a bar fight," he grins eventually, before handing me a long black winter coat.

I take the coat, snorting. "_Me? _In a bar fight? Like anyone would believe _that!_" I exclaim proudly, discreetly informing Potter that no one could ever mistake a Malfoy for someone who would partake in such a vulgar thing as a bar fight.

Potter only rolls his eyes, pulling on his own coat and stepping out through the front door. I follow him, greedily breathing in the cold, dry, fresh air. I had forgotten how wonderful it feels to be able to just stand outside and look up at the clear blue sky.

Without any bars or shackles, I can almost taste something resembling freedom in the air. And somehow hearing Potter's clear laugh from somewhere beside me does nothing to impair the perfection of this moment.

Quite the contrary.

**End of part VII**


	8. Chained to You

**Part VIII**

**Chained**

"What do I use this for again?" Draco asks me, eyeing the peeler in his hand suspiciously. I snort, but fight to keep my face neutral when he gives me a murdering look.

"That's a peeler. You peel the skin off the potatoes and carrots with it," I explain, gesturing towards the vegetables in front of him in the sink. Draco doesn't look any the wiser, but keeps glaring at the metal blade. I sigh exasperatedly, taking the peeler from his hand and grabbing a potato.

"_This_ is how you use it," I demonstrate , slowly pulling the blade over the vegetable and removing the skin. Then I hand the peeler back to Draco. "Try it. But go slowly, don't cut yourself."

Draco just nods silently, biting his lower lip in concentration as he runs the peeler over a carrot. He learns quickly, and I leave him to peel the rest of the vegetables while I cut the meat. Cooking with Draco takes double the time it would take for me to do it by myself, just because I have to teach him how everything works. Surprisingly enough though he doesn't whine much, except for the occasional remark that 'a house elf would have made that pie in three minutes'. I actually think that he likes cooking, he looks very focused whenever he is doing something in the kitchen. I just hope he would show some enthusiasm doing everything else the Muggle way.

I sigh out loud as I think about yesterday.

First was the horrible fit he threw at the mall, when the saleslady looked at him oddly for asking for his jeans to be charmed to fit correctly and then owled to him. On the way home he almost got hit by a car, twice, because he can't understand that certain roads are meant for vehicles only. 'A Malfoy can walk wherever he pleases!' is his excuse.

Then there is the dishwasher, which he claims not to fear. Yet he refuses to be in the same room when I put it on. Still, I doubt he would rather do the dishes by hand.

He is not easy to live with, that much has become obvious to me within these first days. Not that I expected anything else. Not that I would have it any other way.

I look over to the sink where Draco is now cutting the vegetables and putting them in the pan. So far it has been surprisingly simple, this task that I have taken upon me. Except for yelling at some Muggles, Draco isn't throwing any fits, not complaining about his situation, even as I see a painfully distraught expression glimpse on his face now and then. I try not to use my wand excessively, try not to remind him of the existence of magic. A task made noticeably easier by living here in the Muggle world, secluded from all the rumours and magazines speculating about my life. I have no desire to hear what is being said about me. Or about Draco, for that matter.

Not that I wouldn't like to know what happened to him.

I know what he told the court. I know the rough drafts of his story. But what I really want to know, I simply can't ask.

Why did he kill all those people? Did he really think he was doing the right thing? When did he marry the Greengrass girl? Did he love her? Does he _still _love her?

Does he still love me?

All those questions, swirling in my head, on the tip of my tongue so frequently I constantly have to bite them back. I have no right to ask him. I have no right to ask him about her, to demand anything from him. I have no right to be jealous of a ghost, when I have Ginny.

I love Ginny. I have always loved her. There's no question of that. But somehow the want, the _longing_ I have had for four years to find Draco, to make sure that he's alright, culminates into these days that I share with him. As he stands here, only a few yards from me, I suffer from an nearly irresistible need to reach out and touch him.

Ginny I can't even manage to miss that much when she's away.

The guilt and confusion tears at my intestines whenever I let those thoughts surface. But in the end, the biggest problem is that I can't seem to feel as guilty as I should. Because whenever I do, I look over to look at Draco. And he feels my gaze, looking up with a stern and serious expression on his face, his gunmetal eyes piercing me, seemingly erasing every remorseful thought I ever had. He traps me with that gaze, making me feel like I am back in that cell four years ago, still unable to escape.

And what is more disturbing, this time I don't particularly want to.

* * *

Life without a wand is horrifying. I try not to think about it, try not to think about the fact that it has been months since I last held a wand, and that it will never happen again.

I manage. There is no question about that. I try make the best of my situation, to get through this with at least some of my dignity intact. Not to say that it isn't hard. Not to say that I don't hate it. But I am a Malfoy, and this is what we do. We survive even the most despicable situation, coming out on top in the end. After surviving months of torture followed by a trip to Azkaban, the real humiliation would be to let wandlessness kill me.

I just wish they had executed me and saved me all this trouble.

Now I am filling my days with tedious tasks that Potter sets for me. Getting accustomed to Muggles and their ways, learning to live without magic. Things that would make my parents roll in their graves.

Still, it is remarkably easy to suppress such thoughts here. It is as if I have lost a part of my memories, and what I am left with are only pale shadows of the past. My entire life has suddenly shrunk into my current existence in this Muggle house. With Potter.

I feel his gaze on me all the time. He tries to hide it, to pretend that he is merely observing my work. And I in turn try to pretend that I do not notice.

He does not talk much. I wonder if it is because he is accustomed to being alone, or because he can't say the things he would like to. Not that I mind the silence, it is oddly peaceful, wrapping around me and sustaining this illusion of a simpler existence.

"Harry? Are you home?"

Until now.

I turn to see the Mudblood and Weasel standing in the doorway to the hall, their gazes shifting cautiously between Potter and me. And they have every reason to be careful when I am holding a knife. It might just slip and-

"Oh! Hi guys!" Potter exclaims, an expression of delight passing on his face before he realises the tension in the room.

"We just thought we'd drop by, we haven't seen you since…" Granger trails off, gazing at me uncomfortably. She immediately looks away when I meet her gaze, and I can't help the ridiculing snort that escapes me in a breath.

"I think I'll just leave the three of you alone," I mutter, sneering at the Weasel as viciously as I can as I pass him and the Mudblood in the doorway. Weasley takes a step back to give me room, careful to not have to touch me in the small space. I feel victoriously unpopular.

"You don't have to-" I hear Potter's dejected voice from behind me, but I ignore it, and Potter doesn't seem to press the issue. He wouldn't want to make his little friends uncomfortable, now would he?

I am already by my bedroom door, when I realise I might actually be missing some real entertainment. I peek into the living room, where the door joining the living room and kitchen stands half-opened, letting in the voices from the kitchen. I grin.

_Perfect._

"Harry, do you really think this is a good idea?" Granger's nagging voice sounds, screeching unpleasantly in my ear as I approach the door.

"Yeah, Harry!" Weasley interrupts before Potter has time to answer. "I mean, I know you felt sorta like you owed him something, but you got him out of Azkaban! That should be enough. There's no need to do all this!"

"Guys, don't be like that," Potter answers meekly. "He needs help getting up on his feet, they took away his wand for God's sake!"

The words seem to cut Granger and Weasley as much as they do myself, making me feel like some helpless handicapped. An awkward silence follows Potter's words, one that does not help my mood as I keep imagining the pitying expressions those morons are wearing. How _dare_ they pity me?

"But still…" Granger tries, her voice low and apologetic. "You've done enough."

"Exactly! There's no need for you to have to _live _with the bastard!" the Weasel exclaims, sounding almost desperate by now.

"Yes, there is!" Potter cries out, and I hear him letting out a heavy sigh before he continues. "I don't want him to have to live with some other Auror, some scum like Jones! Do you know how he would be treated!"

"He deserves it!" Weasley shouts out, seemingly finally expressing his true feelings. I must say, he has done a good job of hiding them so far. For a Weasley.

"You're just thinking about him! Well what about you? Have you read the _Daily Prophet _during the last few days? Have you any idea what they're saying about you?"

"Ron, calm down-" Granger tries, but is immediately silenced.

"No! I won't!" Weasley continues his disgraceful rant. "Malfoy is _fucked up_, Harry! And now you took him to _live _with you, and everyone is thinking that you're… That you're like _him!_"

He doesn't have to say the exact words. Everyone knows what he is talking about. I feel a humiliated blush spreading on my face, and feel the urge to cover my face with my hands even though I know they can't see me.

This is the ultimate embarrassment, the ultimate disgrace. The Malfoy heir was in love with Harry Potter. Forget the fact that he is also a convicted Death Eater and murderer, but Merlin, he's _gay! _

And the fact that everyone believes Potter to be just the poor victim of a wicked queers affections makes it all just that much more ridiculous. Unfortunately the irony can't seem to amuse me much right now.

"And what about Ginny?" Weasley asks, just when I thought the topic couldn't get worse. "What about my sister? What is _she _supposed to think? She's being taunted and ridiculed by her own _students _because of that _bastard!_"

A horrible silence follows. Potter does not respond, and as the silence draws out it seems that Weasley understands that he has gone too far.

"Harry, I didn't mean to-" he begins, his pathetic attempt to apologize sounding for deaf ears.

"Just leave."

Granger tries. "I'm sorry, Harry. We didn't mean any-"

"Just _go!_" Potter cuts his friend off abruptly, his voice sharp and raw. I can't see his face, but I have seen him angry and know how frightening he looks then.

I hear steps on the hardwood floor, and Granger's last weak apology. "I'm sorry."

They walk through the hall into the living room, both of their eyes widening as they see me standing there. The Weasel opens his mouth to say something, but I only sneer, piercing them with my most murderous look.

Merlin, if I only had my wand.

Heading for the kitchen, I only hear the two of them Floo away.

Potter stands leaning against the counter, head hanging and his hand has come up to pinch the bridge of his nose. He holds his glasses in his other hand, clutching them so tightly I tense up, only waiting for the sound of them breaking.

For a moment I stand in the doorway, uncertain of what I am to do. Why am I here? To try and comfort him? What does one say when you're friends turn against you? I have never comforted anyone, how am I to start with the worst possible person and scenario?

For a moment think I should just go to my room and leave Potter to sort this out on his own. He probably wants to be alone anyway. But somehow my feet prevent me from trying to move, refuse to let me turn my back on him.

In the end I make up my mind, walking slowly over the floor and reaching for Potter's hand. Softly I twist the glasses out of his shaking fingers, reaching over and putting them on the counter.

Potter looks up at me, as if he only just realised I am in the room. I am just about to move away when his other hand comes up to grip my wrist, keeping me in place. He keeps staring at me, emerald eyes somehow completely void and at the same time so filled with emotions that it makes me breathless. I feel my throat grow dry, feel the unmistakeable feeling of recognition creeping under my skin and taking control.

When he leans forth to kiss me, I am too absorbed in that feeling to move away.

The kiss is soft and sweet, and Potter stands almost immobile in front of me. Then he opens his mouth, his tongue sliding over my lips, bringing with it memories from far away, rushing over me like waves. I suddenly feel as if I'm drowning, but my life line is nothing but Potter, his kisses, his breath in my mouth now.

I feel my breath exhilarate, and I suddenly realise that I am pushing Potter back, grabbing the counter for balance. Potter's arms wrap around my waist, pulling me against him, making me gasp for breath at the contact.

Then Potter breaks the kiss, lowering his face to nuzzle at my neck. "Oh God… Draco…" I can hear him whisper, his breath on my throat making me shiver. He holds on to me tightly, desperately, his hands tearing at my sweater as he breathes against my neck. My own dazzlement slowly begins to fade, my consciousness returning and screaming at me for what I did. I want to move, to escape, to run away, but Potter is still holding on to me for comfort. I let him do so for a while despite my own discomfort, but after a while I am forced to pull away.

"I think I'll go to bed," I murmur, barely able to look into Potter's bewildered eyes as I turn away and walk slowly out through the door.

Merlin, what have I done?

**End of part VIII **


	9. This is My Face

**Part IX**

**This is My Face**

The night is silent. So silent that I feel like I am suffocating. Even though I hear no sound from the rest of the house, I am certain that Potter is not asleep. At least I hope that he is not, I cannot imagine the humiliation of this thing bothering me more than it does him.

I don't know why I did what I did. Why I didn't push him away immediately. How does he manage to affect me in such a way, seemingly erasing all rational and coherent thoughts from my brain? I feel like such a fool, so weak and feeble. So unlike myself. How did I come to be this way? Can pain, defeat, or humiliation really cut so deep into someone that it changes the entire basics of their existence?

When did I permit Potter's needs to surpass my own principles?

After lying awake for three hours without any success of falling asleep, I sigh defeatedly, pulling the blanket off me and rising from my bed. I need a glass of water.

Clad in only my new pyjamas and my feet bare, the damp night feels colder than it is. I listen for any noise from the other rooms but hear nothing as I quietly make my way to the door. It opens with a soft click, and I make my way slowly through the hallway towards the kitchen.

Walking past the living room, a dim bluish light from inside catches my attention. I peek inside, seeing Potter sitting on the couch, facing the big black box by the wall. A TV I think it was Potter called it.

The previously dark screen is now somehow showing moving pictures inside it, casting a pale artificial light into the dark room. Slowly creeping closer I approach Potter on the couch, only to find that he has fallen asleep. Head tilted slightly to the left, his glasses fallen down on his nose, he sits completely still, breathing heavily. And for a moment he looks exactly like he did in that dungeon, young and naïve and so, _so_ innocent.

As if compelled by a higher power, I find myself leaning over the armrest of the couch, reaching out to gently tuck a black strand of hair away from his face. My chest feels as if it will implode at the intimacy of it all, at the impossible affection raging through my system. I am suddenly thrown back into a moment long ago, a moment that was a mere grain of sand for history but meant the world for two lost boys. And for a stupid, silly second I hope that history would repeat itself, that he would now open his eyes and look at me, give me the cue. And that I would take that step, and that he would kiss me and love me again, and that _this_ time I would not have to regret it.

But the moment passes, and nothing happens. I sigh shakily, letting out all the built-up tension and expectation, the remains of my hope. And I feel the urge to hit myself, to scream at myself for being such an idiot, for behaving in such a disgraceful way. This is certainly not befitting for a Malfoy.

I move away, already stepping past the couch when someone grabs my wrist and holds it tightly. I look down to see Potter, suddenly wide awake and looking up at me, holding onto me like he has no intention of letting go. As if I was able move away with those green eyes nailing me to the floor, cutting through me, body and soul, keeping me unconditionally locked in place.

"Where are you going?"

The words mean nothing. I hardly even understand them. All that means anything to me is that light ring of his voice, flying through the room and somehow finding me, hitting me so hard I am breathless when I finally manage to answer.

"Nowhere."

And without a word he smiles, pulling me towards him, roughly and gently at the same time. And this time I don't feel a bit like resisting. I fall down on top of Potter, forcing him down on his back on the couch, my leg between his two and our hips moulded together. He keeps his gaze steady on me, his hand coming up to my face, grazing my cheek gently as he leans in to kiss me. So simple, so sweet that it makes me shudder with contentment and raging want at the same time. A kiss so exquisitely promising that I find myself burning with desire immediately. Before I have time to realise it, I have moved my hands to Potter's hips, tugging at his jeans while the kiss gets more breathy, more violent, and more wonderful with each second that passes.

Potter trembles slightly as I touch the sensitive skin on his stomach, but he doesn't let it break his concentration as his hands come up to work on the buttons on my pyjama jacket. He soon grows frustrated and resolves to ripping the shirt open, the undone buttons scattering around us. I grin at Potter's inability for patience, proceeding with opening his jeans. Finding it hard while lying on top of the man, I try to move, but the couch is narrow and I find myself losing my balance, falling down onto the floor and pulling Potter with me.

He yelps loudly and groans as he lands on the hard floor, but looks rather smug when he realises he has landed on top of me. I could not move from under him even if I wanted to. Something that bothers me less when he straddles me before leaning down to kiss me again, his hand weaving into my hair as he starts tugging at my pyjama bottoms. I realise I do not like the idea of me being naked while Potter is still completely dressed, so I push him away, reaching for his jeans again. For a second he looks a little taken aback, before he realises what I am doing and resolves to chuckling slightly. He heaves himself up before pulling his gray T-shirt over his head, giving me the perfect opportunity to admire his body, so beautiful and strangely ethereal in the bluish light from the TV. I realise that he is certainly no longer the skinny boy I once knew. But watching Potter, I suddenly become aware of the sorry state of my own body.

My chest is no longer in such a bad condition; the bruises have healed well and the few scars are really faint, probably nearly invisible in the dim light. But my back is quite another story.

As Potter now moves to tug at the pyjama top, open at the front but still covering my arms and back, I can't hold back the unpleasant shiver that travels through my body. Potter immediately notices the tension and he hesitates, gazing down at me with a peculiar expression.

"What is it?" he asks cautiously, unmistakeably thinking that I am going to freak out and run away. Which I probably should, but unfortunately that isn't the issue this time.

I fidget uncomfortably, trying not to look into his deep green eyes but unable to avoid his piercing gaze. "I look a little… different. Since back then." My voice is quiet, the shame and humiliation burning on my face.

For a minute Potter just stares at me, the confusion obvious on his face. Then his face clears, as he looks down at my naked chest. Eyes as big as saucers he reaches out to run a hand down my chest to my stomach, gentle fingers tracing the small cuts and paling scars there. "Draco…" he begins, and I fight hard not to shiver at the sound. "I didn't… I'm sorry-"

"No," I interrupt, placing my hand over his mouth to silence him. "I don't need you to feel sorry for me." And it's true. I don't need him, I don't want him to feel sorry for me.

I just want him to tell me it doesn't matter to him.

He looks like he might have read my mind, his face growing soft and a sad smile appearing on his face. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but closes it again as he looks down at my body again, pondering. Then suddenly he moves, grabbing the collar of my pyjama jacket and pulling it down my shoulders.

"Take it off," he commands, and I know exactly what he is looking for. I take in a quick breath to protest, but somehow find myself so tired of it all. I don't want him to see. Yet, I do. My mind wishes him to see and become so repulsed, so frightened that he won't ever want to touch me again. And my heart aches for him to just make it all go away.

In the end it doesn't matter what I want. Before I manage to react in any proper way, Potter has wiggled the garment off me, and is sitting back on his heels on the floor.

"Show me," he says softly, his eyebrows knitted together in concern. I swallow loudly, but am unable to disobey him. Slowly I crawl up, sitting down with my knees crossed, my back turned towards Potter. I close my eyes, asking all the gods I don't believe in to not take him away from me now.

Potter sits immobile behind me for a long time, and I feel the distance between us expanding with each passing minute. I know what he is seeing. Bruises and cuts, shallow and deep, old, already paled scars, wounds that are still scabbing… all marked out on a back that is much too skinny than it ought to be, ribs clearly visible under the pale skin. I've seen the image in the mirror here enough times to have the image imprinted on my retina for the rest of my life.

Finally, after what seems like years, I hear Potter move, a small sigh reaching my ear.

"Oh God… Draco," he lets out in a breath, and I suddenly feel a cool hand pressed against my shoulder blade. I shudder under his touch, feeling my mouth go dry with anticipation and dread.

Then I hear Potter get up on his feet and suddenly he is before me, crouching down and staring at me. I look away, flustered and humiliated, but Potter reaches out to gently cup my cheek, moving my head so that I am forced to look him in the eye. And to my ultimate shock I see that Potter's eyes are shiny, filled with unshed tears. For a minute I am horrified and confused, until he repeats his previous statement.

"I am so, _so _sorry, Draco."

I am shocked when I agnise that he feels guilty. And the thought strikes me as extremely ridiculous. Harry Potter feels guilty because of what happened to me. Draco Malfoy. A Death Eater. I suppress the hysterical urge to laugh.

"I should never have left you there." Potter swallows loudly, blinking away the tears. "I should have convinced you to come with me, to get away-"

"Don't be absurd, Potter," I sneer, disgusted by his display of pity and naiveté. "I had made my choice. And I still stand by it. You couldn't have changed my mind whatever you did."

"I could have tried _harder!_" he exclaims, the raw breaking of his voice revealing just how bad he actually feels. I feel the urge to slap him out of it, make him give it up, forget.

"Just… let it go." I lean forth, wrapping my hands around his neck and pull him closer. "It has nothing to do with you. Just forget it."

_Make me forget it._

When I kiss him, he trembles beneath my touch, but he doesn't object. He wraps his arms around me, pulls me as close as physically possible. I find myself clinging to him just as desperately as he clings to me, holding on for dear life, praying that this moment never ends.

I run my hands over Potter's chest as the kiss grows more heated, my fingers tracing familiar patterns, the feeling resurrecting memories long since dead and buried. Those memories arouse me more than anything else ever could.

I lean down onto the floor on my back, pulling Potter with me. For someone who has always topped, I somehow feel very comfortable and sheltered under Potter. And I let myself get away with it, thinking that maybe, just this once, I can let go of the control.

Potter breaks the kiss to tug at my pyjama bottoms again, pulling them down my hips before I barely have time to react. I gasp as the cool air meets the sensitive skin of my prick, and I suddenly feel very vulnerable under Potter's scrutiny. Hurrying to amend the situation, I reach out and work my fingers quickly over the buttons on Potter's jeans before yanking them down. I feel my breath catch slightly at the sight of Potter's well endowed package, the appreciation going straight to my cock.

Potter slithers out of his jeans before he leans down over me, lips meeting mine as his hand seeks its path down to my crotch. I feel a gasp catch in my throat as he wraps a steady hand around my cock, feeling the flesh in his hand before he starts pumping it in a slow rhythm. I want to reciprocate but find myself unable to do much besides whimper and cry out incoherent words against Potter's lips. My hands seek their way into his hair, tugging at the thick inky strands not too gently as he continue to tremble under his touch, my body trying to buck off the floor just to get closer, to get more-

And suddenly it dawns on me exactly what I want.

"Stop!" I breathe out, untwining my fingers from Potter's hair, my hand coming down to move his hand away from my very hard cock.

"What?" Potter asks, his expression a mixture of fright and disbelief. I feel a hysterical chuckle cross my lips, as I give him a quick peck on the lips.

"Fuck me."

I'm pretty sure that was the last thing Potter ever expected me to say. The last thing I ever expected myself to say, for that matter. Still, now the words have left my mouth, and I cannot take them back. Nor do I want to.

Potter keeps staring at me in shock for a good twenty seconds before I explode with impatience.

"Fuck me. You know, when you take your big, hard-"

"I know what it means!" Potter interrupts me, a brilliant blush spreading on his face. Mercifully, he silences my malicious chuckle with a deep kiss. When he finally breaks it, he looks down onto me with seriousness.

"Are you sure?"

No. And yes. The answer is too complicated for words. All I know is that I want to. So I nod breathily, kissing him sloppily as to seal the deal. Potter chuckles somewhat nervously, before he reaches for his wand from somewhere over on the coffee table, Accioing a tube of some sort of lotion from the bathroom.

He slicks a shaking finger with the lotion, spreading my knees apart gently before he looks at me. "Ready?"

Again, I can only nod, trying to swallow my own nervousness.

Slowly he breaches me with one long finger. It does not hurt as I had feared, but simply feels slightly alien. Soon he moves on to two fingers, and in the middle of the slight pain from the stretch I feel him reach something inside me, something so wonderful that I feel myself practically jolting off the floor. As I lie there gasping, Potter only snickers. He reaches for that same spot over and over again, until I am close to weeping from need.

"Just do it already!" I finally cry out when he doesn't seem to get the hint. Potter looks at me, serious and slightly concerned once again. But before I have time to start convincing him, he obeys, pulling his fingers out of me and reaching for the lotion again. I hear his breath shudder as he slicks his cock with the ointment, and I try to concentrate on my main task: breathing.

Soon I feel something breach me, something quite larger than Potter's two fingers. I try not to complain, but a slight groan escapes me as he pushes further and further in. For a moment I feel as if I'm being torn in half, but with it a strange feeling of fullness and completion washing over me.

Finally Potter seems to be fully sheathed, for he pauses for breath and looks down on me with concern. "Are you alright?" he asks, his breath quick and his voice tense from the restraint.

I nod, fighting to still keep on breathing. "Yeah."

He takes one shaky breath before he begins to move, pumping in and out in a slow, steady rhythm. With every stroke I feel more of the pain fade into pleasure, and am just about thinking that it cannot possibly get any better when he suddenly hits that spot within me.

I cry out, my hands coming up to claw at Potter's naked back as I yell out for him to move faster, harder, there yes there just like that-

Merlin knows how long it lasts. In our little universe it could be a minute or it could be a year. All I know is that he keeps moving, we keep moving, he keeps looking down at me. And I look up into his brilliant green eyes and feel as if I have been whisked into a time turner, for in this little moment in time it feels as if nothing has changed. For he looks at me with those same eyes, overflowing with emotions too fragile to be named, whispering soft words I can never make out over my own heavy breathing. After all this time we move just like then. Like one being, as we were so long ago, as we should have been all these years. As if he was always there, as if we were never separated. Like this, I can almost imagine that everything else has been a mere dream and that this is the reality, _our_ reality, the only thing that is true and pure.

This moment is everything. Too perfect, too much, and never enough. Then Potter looks down at me, his forehead sweaty and his cheeks flushed from the extortion. He breathes heavily, blinking a couple of times as if to get a clear view of me.

"I love you."

I forget to breathe.

The words he utters linger in the air, seeming to fill the entire space with what they give and demand in return. Then Potter pushes in particularly hard, grunting loudly, and I feel him spill his seed inside of me. And without warning, I am undone.

Crying out in the back of my throat, I throw my head back, biting my lip until I taste blood. I ejaculate violently, feeling the sticky substance on my own skin and Potters. Potter keeps moving inside of me until he has completely emptied himself. Only then does he breathe in properly, falling onto me on the floor as if all his strength suddenly gave in.

The world seems to spin around me, and I have a hard time focusing on anything. I feel certain that I should say something, explain myself, make some kind of excuse for my behaviour. But all that seems able to pass over my lips is the word:

"Fuck."

Potter's snort indicates his agreement.

**End of part IX**


	10. How Many Miles to Babylon?

**Part X**

**How Many Miles to Babylon?**

The bright rays of the sun wake me in the late morning. I groan loudly with complaint, turning onto my side and finding myself face to face with a sleeping Draco. For a second I am shocked, until I remember the events of last night. The memories of what went down seem so unreal that I feel the urge to reach out and touch the blond beside me, just to make sure that he is real. But he breathes deeply in his sleep, his eyelids fluttering lightly, and I feel a small smile spread on my face, a tingling warmth circulating in the pit of my stomach at the knowledge that he cannot be anything _but_ real.

Though maybe I should not be so relieved. I know what I _should_ be thinking, what I should be asking myself at this point.

_What the hell have I done?_

I never anticipated myself to be the guy who cheats on his girlfriend. All my life I have wanted to regard myself as someone with high morals and a sense of righteousness. But I guess that when it comes down to it I am no better than anyone else. Being someone who is expected to be something of a galleon figure of virtue, the realisation of my deeds cuts deep.

But regaining Draco has to me felt as if I had recovered him from death. In spite of never having accepted the possibility of his death, the possibility that he could have been killed at any time and I would not know about it, I did not live in a reality where his presence was palpable. Now with him back in my life as if by a miracle, how am I supposed to deny him?

Somehow the demolition of my ideals feels worse than the guilt. The remorse is little more than a small sting in my chest, dissolving almost immediately when I look over at the man beside me.

Perhaps it makes me a bad person. But in this past week my whole universe seems to have altered, I barely recognise the me I was before. I can't help but wonder if this is the real me, or if the real me is the one I can see in the pictures taken over the last few years.

A loud knock on the window startles me out of my reverie. I look over to see a small brown owl on the windowsill.

Ginny's owl Alfie.

Gazing over at Draco I find that his eyes are still closed ad his breathing is still heavy. I breathe out, quickly climbing out of the bed, wrapping a sheet around my waist and scurrying over the floor to the window. As much as I don't want Ginny to find out about Draco, I don't want Draco to have to think about Ginny. This is my problem. I don't want to hurt anyone unnecessarily before I have to.

Upon opening the window a harsh autumn wind hits me and I shiver. Reaching for the owl, my hands shake as I try to take the letter from his leg. Alfie pecks at my fingers, impatiently hurrying me on. When I finally succeed he immediately jumps off the windowsill, circling downwards for a second before taking off, disappearing like a small dot in the blue sky.

"Who's it from?"

I jump at the sound of the deep voice I know all too well, turning around quickly to see Draco, wide awake and staring at me sombrely. His voice is calm and his eyes are clear and focused and very, very serious. In spite of my better knowledge, I shrug. "No one."

It is a mere reflex, a defence mechanism. And Draco knows it. He knows that I am lying, that the letter is from Ginny. But he says nothing, doesn't ask any questions. He merely breathes in deeply, nodding softly, as if understanding. Some small relief arises within me; perhaps I am not the only one wanting to live in this bubble we have created around us. Maybe ignorance truly is bliss.

If one can pretend to be ignorant long enough, that is.

* * *

A loud knock wakes me. I feel someone move beside me in the bed, and for a second the realisation paralyzes me with fear. It is only as I feel the mattress shift as the person gets out of the bed that I realise that it is Potter. Not some murderer coming to assassinate me in my sleep, only Potter.

As if he isn't trouble enough.

I open my eyes slowly, my gaze focusing on Potter, standing by the window. He opens it carefully, reaching out his arm to grab hold of the tiny Burrowed owl on the outside windowsill. My stomach ties itself into a knot at the thought of whose message it must be delivering.

Potter fights to untie the letter from the bird's leg for so long that it gets irritated and starts pecking at him. Perhaps in another situation I would find the sight of that amusing. But then he finally receives his letter and sends the bird on its way, and the words are out of my mouth before I have time to gain the presence of mind to stop them.

"Who's it from?"

Potter turns around suddenly, startled by my voice. He blinks once, before answering quickly.

"No one."

As I suspected. Ginny. Not that I am surprised. I actually would have thought her to contact him sooner.

Potter remains by the window, fidgeting uncomfortably for a minute, looking at me nervously, as if expecting me to yell at him and confront him about the letter. As if my dignity would ever allow anything so demeaning. Besides, as much as it bothers me to have to admit it, it really is not my place. I knew more than well what I got myself in to, and in spite of my better judgement, here I am. I have no right to be angry at Potter, no matter how much I would like to blame all of this on him.

Eventually, the unnerving silence between us grows unbearable. Finally I clear my throat, moving to get out of the bed.

"I'm taking a shower," I announce, stalking over towards the bathroom before Potter has the time to react. It takes a second for me to realise that I am stark naked, but by the time I do I have almost reached the door. So I keep walking, feeling Potter's gaze on me, quite pleased with myself.

I shut the door behind me, leaning against it for a moment to listen and make sure that Potter is not following me. When I hear the rustling of paper I breathe out. He's reading the letter. Good. Now maybe when I go back in, the expectant tension might be gone and we could act like adults about the issue once and for all. If anything of the like is even possible between Potter and me.

I turn on the shower and step in under the spray, taking plenty of time to wash my body and my hair, trying very hard not to think of last night. A fruitless effort.

I went to him. In spite of my better knowledge, in spite of all my efforts to stay away and make him do the same, I went to him. And the worst part is that he accepted me. Just like these past years never happened. Like I was never a Death Eater and married to Astoria, like he never got together with Ginny.

_I love you. _

Like he never stopped loving me.

The memory hits me hard, nearly taking my breath away. Everything I ever planned for, everything I ever counted on, during and after his imprisonment, was that he would forget me. Forget what he felt, those feelings created out of impossible hope in an impossible situation, and start hating me again. Making it easier for both of us when the end came.

But somehow the end hasn't evolved according to any possibility I ever took into account.

Now I need to know. Know what will happen. I have little to lose at this point. What matters now is what Potter decides after reading that letter.

Am I a fool for thinking he might even consider anything besides calling last night 'a fit of passion' or something as inane, throw me out of the house as soon as the 60 days are over and return to his girlfriend?

More importantly, what is it that I am asking for here? What is it that I want for myself?

It doesn't really matter. In the end, all the questions that I am now asking myself are pointless. In spite of everything that has happened, last night and before, everything that has led us from being the worst of enemies to finding myself in Potter's bed, in spite of what might happen afterwards, the questions need to be asked. Now.

I am so tired of running.

* * *

"Did you love her?"

The question is shot through the air immediately as I open the door. Unprepared I remain standing in the doorway, staring dumbly at Potter. He has pulled on a pair of pyjama bottoms and is sitting cross-legged on the bed, looking up at me. My fist tightens around the towel I hold around my waist as I feebly try to think of an answer to the unexpectedly blatant question.

Yes. No. How much can you love someone you never wanted to marry in the first place? But how can you _not_ love the person you share four years of your life with, the person carrying your child?

"She was my wife," is the only answer true or sensible enough to pass over my lips. "Do you have another pair of those?" I ask, nodding at the pyjama bottoms.

Potter gazes at me in dismay. "On the chair," he says, not taking his eyes off me. I stalk over to the stool beside the dresser, the stool where the handbag was a couple of days ago. It is gone now, a grey T-shirt and black pyjama bottoms in its place. I reach for the clothes just as Potter's voice sounds through the room again.

"Did you love her? Answer me."

The words sound less like a command and more like plea. I ignore Potter, pulling on the bottoms and the shirt before I turn back to him. He stares at me, traces of fear and desperation in his emerald eyes. I swallow loudly, trying to find the right words. Or _any _words for that matter.

"I didn't _want_ to marry her," I state, seeing Potter release the breath he was holding. I walk over to the bed and sit down opposite Potter, crossing my legs in a mirror of his position. "But in time I grew to be… _comfortable_ around her. Wartime does strange things to people."

My last words are an allusion to our mutual situation, one that Potter surprisingly enough seems to perceive. He does not seem all too pleased with the second part of my answer, but nevertheless nods, as if understanding. As if he could ever understand my situation, or I could ever understand his. Still, it pleases me to see the poorly hidden streaks of jealously on his face. They serve as a small justification for my urge to mirror his question.

"Do you love Ginny?"

Perhaps I am being unfair. Comparing my feelings to a dead woman I was arranged to marry to his feelings for someone he chose willingly, someone who unfortunately enough is very much alive. But I need to know. Even if just to torture myself.

Potter ponders for a minute, as pained expression on his face. He takes a deep breath before he answers.

"Yes."

When the words erupt from his mouth, I feel much as if I have been hit in the face. Not that it was unexpected, just… just painful.

Maybe Potter senses my anxiety, maybe he doesn't, but he hurries to continue. "But I- I still-" he begins, looking at me desperately, subconsciously leaning a bit closer, his eyes great pools of liquid, pulling me in and making me listen to him, willingly or not. "I meant what I said last night." And he leans in to kiss me, as if the contact of our bodies will conclude the subject.

The kiss is hot and sweet, tasting of Potter and the feelings he promises, sending a warm tingle up my spine and making my breath exhilarate immediately. But in spite of the burst of joy building in my chest, his last words somehow make me feel even worse. Potter is torn between right and wrong, and I am allowing it, perhaps making life harder than it should be for both of us.

Reluctantly I pull away, looking out through the window and unable to turn my head and meet Potter's gaze.

"You don't think that we are in over our heads here?" I ask, slightly breathless, trying to lose myself in the scenery outside to regain some control of my emotions. When Potter doesn't answer immediately I eventually turn to him, only to find him staring at me, his eyes such deep craters of anguish and want that I feel my breath catch in my throat.

"Don't you think we have been in worse situations?" is his weak response, a small grin playing on his lips.

"That was different," I reply quickly, shaking my head softly. I open my mouth to continue, but find it once again covered by Potter's, his hand wrapping insistently behind my neck. A hand comes up to slither under my shirt, grazing over my chest and recreating a memory from not so long ago. I feel my heartbeat speeding up immediately, and my voice is disgracefully breathless when I speak between our lips.

"What are you asking for?" I try to voice the question as calmly as possible, but the pathetic fear and helplessness shines through nevertheless. Potter notices it, pulling away from me warily. He keeps his face only inches from mine, his hand still warm on my neck and his breath still ghosting on my lips.

"I just want you," he whispers, a look of shame and guilt so evident on his face that it makes me sick. But his words light a fire in me, a hope that maybe, just _maybe _there lies a promise in them.

"I just want to forget everything. So can you just- be mine? Like in the dungeons? Even for just today?" he asks, holding onto me so desperately that his nails are digging into my skin. "No games, no pretence. Just you and me."

And I want to say no. I want to tell him that he can't just choose me today if he might choose her tomorrow. But I am nailed to my place by his gaze, by the things he is offering me. Even if they might just last a day. Even if I might regret it all again tomorrow.

I know I won't regret it today.

So I nod, a small smile creeping over my face.

"No games."

**End of part X**


	11. Justice and Virtue

**Part XI**

**Justice and Virtue **

"What the hell is this?" I enquire , staring into a square cardboard box at the content that looks much like flat bread with tomato sauce poured all over it. Once again I realise how very far away from home I am.

"It's pizza," Potter explains, as if it is the most natural thing in the world. When I raise a questioning eyebrow at him he only chuckles, walking over to the cupboard to get us some glasses. "It's Italian. Just try it, it's really good."

I snort incredulously, taking another peek at the strange pie. Not exactly gourmet, though it smells awfully good. Not that I would ever attest to that.

Potter carries the glasses and a pitcher of water into the living room. I follow, carrying the two cardboard boxes.

"So…" I begin doubtfully, watching Potter take a seat on the sofa. "How does one eat one of these things?"

Potter laughs again, with a sound so genuine and gentle that I can't even bother to be irritated for being ridiculed. He reaches for one of the boxes, opens it and rolls a peculiar rolling blade over the 'pizza', swiftly dividing it into six pieces. Then he repeats the motions on the other one. "There," he says simply, leaning back against the couch, TV remote in hand and the pizza box in his lap.

I sit down next to him, reaching for my own box. I watch Potter bring a triangle-shaped piece of pizza to his mouth with one hand, while he points the remote to the TV and presses some buttons. I suppress the urge to comment on how Muggle this entire situation is. Dining in the living room, no cutlery, no plates, eating the food from a box. How marvellously plebeian. I'm glad Mother can't see me right now.

Still, it feels oddly relaxing, this thing Potter calls a 'movie night'. I am rapidly becoming strangely obsessed with movies, surprised to have found myself actually enjoying an activity so outrageously Muggle. And Potter is content to have me watch them, even if it means having to watch movies he has seen several times before. Many times I catch him watching me instead of the movie, smiling softly at me when I get too engaged in the plot. When I sneer at him, he only laughs at my embarrassment, not in a vicious, scornful way but in a soft, light way that speaks of familiarity and intimacy.

And that laugh is how he keeps me.

That laugh is what brings me to him every day, what made me move upstairs into the master bedroom. That laugh, that smile is what makes me abandon all reason and let this dream carry me into this blissful oblivion.

It is so easy to forget reality. Somewhere in all of this I manage to forget that everything is temporary. I forget that this is not my place, not my home, that I do not belong here. A day, two days, a week, three weeks run by, and I barely notice. The only thing that brings me back is that knock on the window, that quiet rustle of paper I occasionally hear from the other room. I stay away. I do not want to know if it is a notice from the Ministry, another apology from Granger, or a letter from the Weaslette. Especially not if it's from the Weaslette.

I don't want to know what she writes. And I don't want to know what he answers her. Still, I know that I will have to ask him eventually. But he keeps pulling me back into that easy oblivion that exists in this house, in our little universe. And I keep telling myself 'Not now'.

I keep wanting to forget. Because remembering takes me back. Because asking makes it real.

* * *

"Now that wasn't so bad, was it?" I ask, glancing sideways at Draco, walking beside me. He raises an unamused eyebrow.

"Well, at least this time I remembered how to count the money. But the arrangement with the plastic bags is still highly confusing." Draco stares murderously at the bag in his hand. "And why did that clerk keep staring at you like that?"

I let out a short bark of a laugh, and Draco casts a questioning glance my way, raising an eyebrow with poorly hidden amusement.

"You don't think it might have anything to do with the enormous hickey on my neck? I look like a fucking leper!" I exclaim, self-consciously grazing my fingers over the sore spot, secretly quite pleased with the reminder of last night's activities.

Draco snorts loudly, wickedly observing my throat. "Damn, Potter. You're supposed to be twenty-one years old, but you look like a horny teenager!" he drawls, evidently quite pleased with himself.

"Who is the fucking teenager here who did this to me?" I ask, trying to sound annoyed but failing miserably. Draco only chuckles lightly, not looking the least bit sorry.

And all I can do is laugh.

The walks to the grocery store are one of my favourite parts of the week. Draco usually complains about the Muggles all the way to the store and back, but lately there is little heart behind the words. They are more of a habit, one Draco is determined not to break. Stubborn git. And yet his obstinacy is so endearing that I find it almost impossible to scold him for anything.

St Michael's Hill is beautiful this time of year. The harsh winds have shook the foliage from the trees, leaving the trunks bare and vulnerable against the breeze. All of nature is silent, as if holding its breath in wait for the first snow that might come any day. Time seems to stand still around us as we walk up the steep hill, cross the nearly empty streets and pass the old timber-framed houses. My world in this moment consists only of the chilly air on my cheeks, the rustling from the plastic bag, and Draco's clear voice. In this moment, that is all I want.

Finally we reach home, walking up the stairs to the familiar front door. As always, Draco snorts loudly when I dig up the key from my pocket.

"I don't get Muggles. Is that tiny thing supposed to protect people's property from burglars? How do you people manage without protective charms?" The same question has been asked so many times that I know better than to try and answer it. Instead I just huff at the blond, elbowing him lightly in the ribs for good measure. I open the door and Draco pushes past me, grabbing my plastic bag and marching directly through the hall into the kitchen. I hear him rustling around as I remove my coat.

When I enter the kitchen, Draco is completely occupied with emptying the grocery bags, fighting to get some room for the dairy products in the fridge. I dig into one of the bags to help him, just as a voice sounds through the room.

"Harry? Are you home?"

I freeze mid-movement. _Hermione. _

My eyes immediately dart over to Draco, who looks much like he might drop the milk carton he is holding. A deep frown is spreading on his face, but he says nothing as he puts all the articles in the fridge and slams the door shut.

"Harry?"

I try to look Draco in the eye, try to apologise silently, but he refuses to meet my gaze. He just sighs deeply, crossing the room and stepping out into the hall.

"Malfoy!" Hermione's voice is heard. "Is Harry here?" She doesn't sound particularly hostile, just very uncomfortable.

"In the kitchen," Draco answers curtly, gazing back at me briefly before turning around and quickly ascending upstairs. I see him disappear out of sight just as Hermione appears in the doorway.

"Hello, Harry," she says shyly, a cautious smile on her face.

At first I do not answer, determined to keep punishing her. But I soon lose the fight with myself, realising that in the ten years I have known Hermione, I have never been this long without talking to her.

"Hello, 'Mione," I therefore answer. Not exactly a heart-warming welcome, but even I am not capable of forgiving anyone that easily. However, I do not like to keep grudges.

"Would you like some coffee?"

The bushy-haired girl nods quickly, breathing deeply from relief. "Yes, please." She smiles at me, walking over to the table and sitting down. I move to prepare the coffee, and an awkward silence follows.

"How is Ron?" I am finally forced to enquire, peeking over my shoulder at Hermione while I step over to the cupboard to fetch some cups.

"He is quite well," Hermione answers quickly, the words almost out of her mouth before I have finished my sentence. " The Auror training is taking its toll on his nerves, but he's managing."

I nod awkwardly, remaining by the cupboard, cups in hand, staring into nothingness. "Good."

Again silence fills the room, the only sound the irregular noises from the coffee maker. When the pan finally is full, I feel the urge to scream from relief. Filled coffee cups in hand, I approach the table and sit down, pushing one cup over the table to Hermione.

"Here you go."

"Thank you," she answers, smiling unnaturally sweetly for being Hermione.

Neither of us find anything to say. The longer the silence draws out, the harder it is to come up with something. There is so much I want to say. But when I open my mouth, there is nothing. When did school time friendships become this hard?

Eventually, Hermione breaks down.

"Harry, I'm so sorry," she says weakly, forcing me to look into her eyes. I nod, but find myself unable to answer. I know that she speaks the truth, the regret is evident in her eyes. But I cannot pretend that one apology will make it all go away.

"I'm sorry about what we said," she continues. "Ron is very sorry too, he's just too stubborn to apologise." She tries to warm me up with humour, smiling softly at me. And I find myself forced reciprocate, letting a tense smile form on my lips.

"You know how he is," Hermione hurries to continue, encouraged by my response. "He gets agitated when talking about Malfoy, and then he says too much," she says, nervously fidgeting in her seat.

"He's just looking out for you. _We're_ just looking out for you. You know that, right?"

Her question hangs in the air for what seems like days, and finally I let a stiff chuckle escape me. "I know."

I know. They are always looking out for me, always there for me. But this is more complicated than school time feuds, or battles against the darkness. This time the darkness is amongst us, tearing us apart from the inside.

This time I am on the dark side.

Perhaps neither of us is truly ready to forgive and forget. But for old time's sake, I have to at least try. So I smile at Hermione, genuinely this time. "I'm sorry, too. I overreacted, I shouldn't have thrown you out like that."

Hermione lets out a soft laugh, and I can almost see the tension and dread falling off her shoulders. "I'm so relieved!" she smiles warmly, looking at me as if she would like to hug me. "These past weeks have been some of the worst of my life. I hate that we let things like this come between-"

Suddenly she is caught off, and it takes me a minute to realise why. But then I notice her gaze fixated on my neck, and she is blinking repeatedly as if unable to believe her eyes.

And in this horrible moment I realise what she is looking at.

My hand flies up to my throat, desperate to cover the brand of my sins. Even as I know that it is much too late.

"What-" Hermione begins, her voice breaking immediately. She clears her throat. "Harry, is that..?" she asks weakly, her eyes shifting from my covered neck to my eyes and back.

I make no attempt to answer. I do not need to. Hermione if anyone can put the pieces together. A last minute lie at this point would be completely fruitless.

"I had considered it briefly, thought that it was a possibility…" the girl murmurs, mostly to herself, holding on to her coffee cup so tightly I'm afraid it will break in her hands. "But I never really believed…"

Hermione looks up into my eyes again, desperately asking for some sign of denial. When I manage nothing of the like, the girl almost starts to hyperventilate. She breathes in and out deeply for a couple of times before she is able to speak again.

"It wasn't just him, was it?" she ask quietly, her brown eyes seeking in mine, searching for an answer, a confirmation. "He said that he loved you. But you loved him too."

It is not a question. She utters the words so clearly, no longer clouded with doubt or hesitation. "That's why you saved him, took him in. You loved him," she states, narrowing her eyes, her gaze keeping me in place, making me feel like I am on death roll, just waiting for the last blow.

"You _still _love him."

I want to deny it. Tell some white lie and let this all fade into the past, leaving no one any the wiser. But Hermione has struck the truth too close to the core. There is nothing left to contradict, nothing left to hide. All I can do now is try to justify my actions.

"Mione, please. Let me explain-"

"How could you do that?" she interrupts me, standing up from her seat, overturning her cup in the process. The liquid pours over the table and onto the floor, but neither of us reacts. Hermione just keep staring at me intently, her eyes blazing with disbelief and something almost resembling disgust.

"How could you do that to Ginny, Harry?"

A good question. One I have no plausible answer for. What is righteous or justified in taking your ex lover to live with you and continue an affair with him right under your girlfriend's nose? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

But what is justified in love? What is righteous? Virtue and morality plays little part in anything when your heart calls the shots.

"I fell in love." A weak explanation, but it's all I have to offer. It's the only truth.

"That doesn't give you the right," Hermione spits through clenched teeth, staring at me with a stronger wrath than I've ever seen on her face.

"You have to tell her."

And just like that, she utters the words I most feared. The words I have been repeating to myself for the last weeks, the words that always circle in the back of my head. I know that I have to. But I can't. I can't hurt Ginny like that.

I just can't.

I open my mouth to protest, but Hermione cuts me off before I have the time to utter a single word.

"You have to end it, Harry. You have to end it with Malfoy, or you have to tell Ginny," she orders, pronouncing every word clearly, each of them another nail in my coffin. "You have to tell her, or I will."

**End of part XI**


	12. Outlaw Heart

**Part XII  
****Outlaw Heart**

"You have to end it, Harry. You have to end it with Malfoy, or you have to tell Ginny," she orders, pronouncing every word clearly, each of them another nail in my coffin. "You have to tell her, or I will," Hermione says, her eyes blazing.

She is right. I admit it. But I can't help but hate her for it.

"I will," I spit back, clenching my fists. "I'll tell her when she comes home next week."

Hermione stares at me with great disbelief, her brown eyes wide in shock. I don't think she ever thought I would choose Draco over Ginny. I don't think I ever thought I would do it myself, before the words now leave my mouth. And suddenly it is that simple, that easy to make the decision.

"You're really going to stay with Malfoy?" Hermione utters, looking like she could be knocked over with a feather.

"Yes," I state defiantly. It's amazing how relieved I feel, even in this most uncomfortable situation, just knowing that I have made up my mind. Made the right decision.

Although the hard part is still ahead.

Hermione stares at me quietly for a long while. I stand silently challenging her, waiting for the inevitable explosion.

It never comes.

Finally Hermione sighs, drawing in an uneven breath as she runs a hand through her hair. The resentment in her eyes turns to worry and distress, something that disturbs me even more than the enmity.

"I really hope that you know what you're doing," she says quietly, clenching her jaw furiously. Then she casts me a last anxious glance, before she walks swiftly out through the door and into the hall. For a moment I want to apologize, for this, for everything, ask Hermione if we can forget this fight and be the best of friends again.

But it is too late for that. Things that have been said and done can't be taken back, and we can never be like we were before. Frozen in place, I stand still until I hear my friend Flooing away.

* * *

It seems like ages before I hear Potter making his way up the stairs. His talk with the Mudblood lasted a long time. I hope they worked things out. Or not. If he solves his problems with his friends, they will soon make him see that I don't belong in his life. Which he will eventually figure out by himself, too. But I'd like to keep pretending for as long as I can.

But I look up as Potter enters the room, and realise that he has most certainly not solved his issues with Granger. Dragging his feet, his brow knitted in contemplation, he looks almost like after his last row with Weasley and Granger.

Throwing the book I was reading onto the nightstand, I crawl over the bed towards him. "What happened?"

Potter sighs deeply, his shoulders slouching as he takes a seat on the edge of the bed. I lean against his back, gently wrapping my arms around his chest as I wait for him to speak. But when he blurts out the words, I am in no way prepared.

"Hermione knows."

My stomach drops and I feel my heart grow cold. _Knows? The Mudblood knows about us? _I'm glad that Potter can't see my horror-stricken face now as I breathe into his neck, trying not to hyperventilate.

"You _told_ her?" I croak, unable to keep my voice in check.

"She guessed," he answers, leaning his head back to rest at my shoulder, a tired groan escaping him. "She told me she would tell Ginny if I didn't leave you or tell her myself."

He utters the words so simply, talking with such gut-wrenching honesty about out situation that I feel sick. With trepidation I wait for the conclusions following that sentence, the words that will determine my entire future. Fighting to breathe calmly, I only hope that my heart doesn't beat its way out of my chest. "What did you tell her?"

For a long moment he stays quiet, no doubt wondering what to say. With each passing minute I feel my anxiousness grow, each second becoming more certain that this is it. This is how it ends.

"I told her that I choose you."

The words are spoken so softly that it takes a moment for me to react, and even then I am uncertain if Potter really spoke or if the words were just a product of my hopeless desire to hear them.

But then Potter moves his hand atop of mine, still resting on his chest, sighing deeply again. "I want you."

He shifts in his position, moving away from my touch to turn and look at me. Licking his lips nervously, he stares at me pleadingly, hoping, wishing. "I want you, Draco. Now and forever. If… if you'll have me?"

There is little I can do or say through my astonishment. My jaw falls open, and I feel my eyes grow glassy, unshed tears building up behind them. Blinking furiously, I have to look away. I swallow loudly, staring down at the floor as the silence builds around us.

I have ran away enough, played enough games for a lifetime. _If I'll have him? _Is he kidding? Refusing him once was hard enough. Does he really think I could do it again?

I look back up, meeting green eyes now filled with concern and doubt. And I want to answer him, reassure him. But there are no words for this feeling, this kind of happiness. So I simply let a smile spread onto my face, enthralled when I see the relief spread in Potter's eyes. He throws his arms around me, his lips sealed onto mine as we fall back onto the bed.

He straddles me as I proceed to tear at his clothes, my breaths heavy against his mouth. I want him, need him to complete this sensation that his words have set in action. I need to see him as corrupted by this as I am, I need to get under his skin and make this moment _real_.

Right now I just can't believe it.

"I want you." Potter repeats the words huskily against my lips as I rip his shirt of him and move to tug at his jeans. "I _need_ you, Draco."

His words make my head spin and I swiftly grow desperate, throwing Potter to the side and reversing our positions, landing me on top of him. He gasps at the sudden movement, but relaxes immediately, spreading his legs to accommodate mine between them.

I tug his jeans down his hips and he wriggles out of them, soon lying nakedly sprawled over the bed, his skin so pale against the blue sheets. My cock twitches almost painfully at the sight, resisting against the cloth of my pants. Swallowing moan, I pull my T-shirt over my head and toss it to the side before I move to unbutton my trousers.

"Draco…" Potter moans alluringly, stretching on the bed, his muscles straining beautifully. He Accios the lube from the nightstand drawer, reaching it towards me just as I manage to kick my trousers to the side.

Quickly I prepare him, loving to see him writhe beneath me, his face twisted in pleasure. He bites his lip violently, groaning loudly as I pull out my fingers and grab the lubricant once more, coating myself with the translucent ointment.

He looks up at me, his eyes barely open and his chest rising and lowering irregularly. "I love you, Draco."

I smile to myself, grabbing his hips and placing myself against his entrance. "I love you, too."

And I push in hard, causing Potter to cry out violently under me. I gasp at the tight heat, feel my legs tremble from the restraint. Potter fists the sheets in a desperate act to grab on to something, anything as I begin to move inside him, pounding into him ever harder, ever faster on his command.

This is how it should be. This is where I belong. In almost painful ecstasy I feel my sense heightened, I can feel every inch of Potter pressed against me, I can hear every breath he makes, every beat of his heart. Nothing is more simple and more complicated than the raw beauty of this moment in time.

I am almost forced to regret the resplendence, because I know that for every high, there is a low. This moment will not last forever, and neither will we. But for all that notion is worth, right now I cannot seem to care. All I need to know, think, and feel, is Potter.

And all else can be damned. For now.

* * *

"She's coming home?"

My voice is laced with disbelief and ill disguised dismay. Potter glances at me, and abashed blush gracing his features.

"She owled me a couple of days ago, saying she'll be home for the weekend next week."

"I see."

Actually, I shouldn't be surprised. With all the rumours circling around my residing here, I'm amazed that she hasn't made the journey earlier. Although teaching at Hogwarts, I guess it's not so easy. A sudden disappearance would only have put more fuel in the fire for the rumours.

So, I'm going to be made a guest in this house again. For the last weekend of my probation, nonetheless.

"I'll be moving down to the guest room, then," I state sourly, scowling as I think about the Weaslette taking my place in Potter's bed.

Potter snorts humorously, but the uncomfortable blush remains on his face. "It's only temporary." He leans over, kissing me softly on the lips before reaching for the _Bristol Evening Post_. Just to have something to focus on so he won't have to look me in the eye, I gather. "She'll only be here a couple of days before she goes back to Hogwarts. I will tell her then," he assures me, offering a small smile. "I just need some time."

He is kidding himself. Time is not given and time is not taken, not by us, not by anyone. It is delusional to think so. But naturally, I cannot tell him that. I do not want to. I want to believe that if he can keep himself in the dark, maybe he can keep me there too. Because this last peaceful week might be the last we have.

When Potter tells the Weaslette, all Hell will break loose.

**End of part XII**


	13. Burn Your Life Down

_**Author's Note: **__I really have to apologize for my absence. This chapter is way overdue, and it makes me so ashamed. School has just been absolutely crazy the last weeks, and I really had to prioritize my work. Fortunately I'm for the moment pretty much done with all that, and thus able to get back to the work that I really love. _

_So, once again I apologize, and I hope you all enjoy this chapter of Salt._

Cheers,  
-J.

**Part XIII  
****Burn Your Life Down**

"Coffee?"

He nods absentmindedly, shooting me a small smile when I furrow my brow at him. Then he looks back down at the newspaper. His eyes are pinned to the pages but he isn't really reading, and his foot taps anxiously against the floor. I hate him for being so nervous.

It's Saturday morning, and we are having breakfast just like any other day. Except that this is the day when Potter bothered to get dressed before 2 pm. The day he woke up an hour earlier to change the sheets in the master bed.

This is the day when Ginny Weasley is coming home.

"What time is it?" Potter asks for the seventh time within forty-five minutes. I gaze over at the old clock on the wall behind him.

"Eleven minutes past ten," I mutter, staring with dread at the minute hand, indicating that the Weaslette should have walked through the door half an hour ago. "Now twelve."

"Wonderful," Potter grits forth, a shudder travelling through his body. The silence builds slowly up around us again, but the atmosphere is everything but calm.

We both jump loudly at the sound of the front door opening. I shoot a look at Potter, who looks so terrified that I'm almost concerned that he might pass out.

"Harry?" a soft voice calls out, and the sound of someone moving around in the entrance hall reaches the room.

Potter stands up, looking at me uncertainly for a minute before he takes a deep breath and walks out into the hall.

"Hi, Ginny," I hear him utter, his voice not as shaky as I had feared.

"Oh, Harry, I missed you so much!" Ginny exclaims, and then the air is quiet for a moment. I feebly try to place my coffee cup onto its saucer without the porcelain clucking together as I think about the two of them kissing behind that wall. It is only when Potter speaks again that I release a breath I didn't even realise I was holding.

"How was your trip?"

"Oh, it was fine," I hear Ginny say sweetly, rustling with her things. "The train was pretty much empty so I could sleep through most of the trip." She laughs. "As a flying instructor I have little tests or essays to correct, so there was little else to do."

Then I hear them step into the doorway of the kitchen, and the Weaslette quiets down abruptly. Slowly I look up from my coffee, meeting the red-headed woman's gaze steadily but with little interest.

"Good morning," I state politely, suppressing the urge to grin superiorly at the girls poor attempt to hide her disdain.

She swallows loudly, her surprise evident on her face. I guess hearing about a Malfoy living in one's house is different from actually seeing him sitting by your kitchen table eating breakfast. I'm positive she had completely forgotten I would be here.

It will make irritating her even more enjoyable.

"Hello, Malfoy," Ginny finally mutters, her eyes fleeing towards Potter, asking for help. As if he could get rid of me before my probation is over. As if he wanted to.

Potter clears his throat. "Ginny, you know Malfoy," he says, gesturing offhandedly towards me before he makes his way towards the kitchen cabinets. "Would you care for some coffee?" He raises an eyebrow at Ginny, who casts a sour glance at me before she turns back to Potter and nods.

"Sure."

As Potter turns to rustle through the cabinet, the Weaslette moves to sit down by the table, on the chair opposite of me, as far away as possible. I stifle the urge to snort out loud.

Potter returns to the table with a cup for the girl, putting it down on the table in front of her as he takes a seat his chair. The protracting silence is as so uncomfortable that it grows simply ridiculous. I make the most of it by keeping my eyes locked at the Weaslette, who looks around the room and does everything in her power not to look straight at me. Potter simply keeps gaping like a goldfish, opening his mouth every other second to break the silence, and closing it the next when he realises that he has nothing to say.

Finally, I grow tired of the charade and rise from my seat. "Well, as much fun as this reunion has been, I think I'll retire now," I drawl, raising a wicked eyebrow at Potter before I talk out of the kitchen. Desperate to find something to take my mind of that sodding wench in the kitchen, I slump down onto the living room couch and turn on the TV, pushing the volume-button until the sound of the Old Bailey blowing up drowns out the Weaslette's voice.

Dratted Weasleys.

* * *

"How long is he going to stay here?" Ginny asks almost immediately after Draco leaves the room, not even bothering to keep her voice down.

I swallow, my mouth feeling instantly dry. "Tomorrow is the last day of his probation. On Monday I'll go with him to the Ministry, and then he will be free."

Ginny opens her mouth to answer just as a the loud symphony of Tchaikovsky sounds through the wall. She turns to stare at me in shock. "Is that the TV?"

I nod, chuckling slightly. "Yeah. He's watching _V for Vendetta _again. Draco loves when they blow up the Houses of Parliament." It takes me a minute to realise and regret the affection in my voice, and the fact that I just used Draco's given name in front of Ginny. She stares at me with a peculiar expression for a moment, but when I play oblivious she just turns away and sighs, shaking her head softly as she takes a sip of her coffee.

"I still can't believe they let him go," she says in disbelief. Looking up at me, she furrows her brow. "I still can't believe you defended him, Harry."

I feel a slight flush spread on my face, but I take a deep breath and shrug dismissively. "You knew my opinion on the matter," I state, almost reprimanding her for trying to pretend that my choice to defend Draco was a surprise to her. "I always said I would defend him in court if it came to that."

"Yes," Ginny admits, not looking too pleased about the matter. "But I never thought you would actually volunteer to have him _live_ here. In _our_ house!"

She talks as if Draco is invading out privacy, _her_ privacy. As if she's even here most time of the year.

But naturally, I do not mention that to her. I would like to preserve the peace, at least until I am forced to do otherwise.

"Let's not fight about this now," I sigh, taking a deep breath to calm myself. "It will be over anyway in two days."

Ginny nods forcedly, before flashing me a bright smile. "You're absolutely right," she says, leaning forward to give me a quick peck on the lips. I compel myself to return her smile.

_Yes, in two days, this will all be over. Just not quite as she thinks._

* * *

No day has never seemed so excruciatingly long.

I hate lying to Ginny. I hate it when she reaches out for my hand and smiles at me, her features nothing but affection. I hate it when she leans in to kiss me, and I hate the fact that it disturbs me so greatly while I am still forced to return it.

And what I hate most is that Draco is forced to see it all.

There is no escaping the situation. The house is too small for me to get away from Ginny for even a minute, or for Draco to hide away for too long. In truth, I don't want to let him hide away. Selfish as I am, I'd rather have all of us suffer through the discomfort of being in the same room, than being forced to be alone with Ginny for too long.

I can't be alone with her. I can't indulge her without feeling more like I'm cheating on Draco than I already do, and I can't deny her without rousing her suspicions. The old adage '_You made your bed, now you have to lie in it' _crosses my mind, and if possible it makes me feel even worse.

When the day draws nearer to night, my trepidation grows almost unbearable. As painfully uncomfortable as this day has been, what comes next can be no less than a thousand times worse.

In my entire life I have not once broken up with anyone. And I have certainly never had to tell someone I cheated on them. But the more I think about it, the more only one question repeats itself in my mind:

Is there any way to gently break someone's heart?

Not long after sundown Draco excuses himself, casting me a last comforting glance before retiring to his room. It gives me some strength, the knowledge that after the horrors of tonight I will have something good to return to warming my stomach. Still, my heart beats furiously, the drumming so loud I my own ears that I'm afraid even Ginny will hear it.

For a moment we keep watching _Who Wants to be a Millionaire? _in silence, until I finally seem to gather my strength.

_I have to tell her now. There is no way out. _

It will be horrible. She will scream, cry, throw things… Most likely she will also call me a dirty fag, and there will be no way of asking her to keep the issue from the press. Honestly, I have no right to expect that of her.

"Ginny, I-"

"Harry, there is something I have to tell you," Ginny blurts out, cutting me off abruptly. Disappointed and relieved at the same time, I try to look at least somewhat interested.

"What is it?" I ask, almost grateful for the diversion she has provided me with. It allows me to postpone the awaking of her wrath for a little while further.

A blush spreads on Ginny's face, and she fidgets in her seat.

"I was very uncomfortable thinking about Malfoy living here," she professes, scrounging her nose as she looks at me. "But there was another reason I chose to take a weekend off."

I knit my brow in concern, suddenly feeling very uneasy for reasons having little to do with my own personal guilt.

"Are you alright?" I ask, afraid she might have had an flying accident of some sort. Or perhaps the taunting of her students has grown unbearable.

"I'm fine," Ginny smiles brightly, her blush spreading further over her nose. "Perfect."

She takes a deep breath, reaching forward to grab my hand in both of hers, a brilliant smile still lighting up her face. "Harry, I'm pregnant."

* * *

This is probably the worst time for me to let my Slytherin qualities get the best of me. I should give Potter some privacy, at least for the moment when he breaks up with his girlfriend. But upon leaving the living room, I can't seem to compel myself to walk any further. The temptation of hearing Potter leave that Weasley twit for me is just too great.

Besides, I'm a Malfoy. Who expects me to have any morals, anyway?

They are silent for a long time, all I hear is the sound of the TV. I chuckle silently, thinking that those two ever had a solid relationship. One couldn't find any heat there if they were lit on fire.

"Ginny, I-" Potter finally begins, but at the exact same time the Weaslette decides to speak.

"Harry, there is something I have to tell you," she says shyly, efficiently silencing Potter. I curse him for being such a wuss.

"What is it?" he asks, but the concern isn't too convincing.

The Weaslette speaks again. "I was very uncomfortable thinking about Malfoy living here," she professes, and it is all I can do not to snort out loud. "But there was another reason I chose to take a weekend off."

_Yeah, right. She really just wanted to check up on Potter._

"Are you alright?" Potter asks, his anxiousness slightly more believable now. I find it ironical that he needs to make sure he is alright, just so he can break her heart.

"I'm fine," the Weaslette says lightly, her voice bright with happiness. Such happiness that it suddenly makes me very uneasy. "Perfect."

I don't have time to prepare myself for whatever might come before she speaks again. Not that anything could prepare me for the words I hear next.

"Harry, I'm pregnant."

_I can't breathe._

**End of part XIII**


	14. Where I Stood

**Part XIV  
****Where I Stood**

"_Harry, I'm pregnant."_

Those fatal three words continue to ring through my head, occupying every inch of my brain, suffocating every other thought. Three little words. So simple, yet so destructive. So absolute.

I lie awake in the night, my head filled with voices. Voices telling me '_She isn't showing yet, she's not that far along. She might still have a miscarriage_'. Voices reassuring me, telling me Potter will choose me. He loves me. Not that awful twit, _me_!

Then there are the other voices, reminding me that the Weaslette is giving Potter what he always wanted. What I can never give him. A family, a _real_ family.

The more I think about it, the more certain I become that he will choose her. So he told me that he loves me? I know better than anyone that love is a relative matter, it comes and goes. It can bloom one day, then alter or even disappear completely.

Potter loved Ginny once, not too long ago. And if there is anything that brings two people together, it is having a child together.

There is no way I can compete with that. There is nothing I can do to make him choose me. We love what we want, what we desire. For a brief moment, I was what Potter desired most. But now Ginny is giving him that which he has always wanted most. He will choose his family before his desire. Just like I did so long ago.

He will never deny her.

I can see it before me now. The agonising time it will take for Potter to make his decision, get over his guilt, and put me out of my misery. The time during which I will try to tell me every day that I am living in delusion, still hanging on to that last shred of hope that I might, just _might_ mean more to him than the Weaslette does. But of course, he will choose her. He will choose her and the baby, just as it should be.

_Just as it should be._

The thought hits me with such force that I become momentarily short of breath. Because with those words, it strikes me what I must do.

_Making the choice will kill Potter. So I will make it for him._

Without a seconds thought, rise from the bed and drag out the old suitcase Potter loaned me from under the bed. I never bothered to pack the few things that I have in this house, because I never thought I would be leaving. All of my possessions lay scattered around the room, just waiting for their return to the master bedroom upstairs.

The thought burns behind my eyes.

Feeling a shuddering breath escape me, I begin to assemble my things into the suitcase. I will leave. I will save Potter the pain of making the decision, and I will disappear from his life.

It might just be the first and the last unselfish deed I ever do, so I might as well do it for someone who matters.

If this was any other situation I might stay and fight. Even with the threat of eternal humiliation hanging over my head, I might stay. Stay and demand that he chooses me, the one he professed to love only this morning.

Yes, it this was any other situation. But selfish or not, I can't be the one to make a man leave his family. I can't be the one to force Potter to abandon his child. As much as it pains me to leave, I can't do it. If Father taught me one thing, it was that Malfoys take care of their families. They do anything to protect them.

I have lost my family. Through pride and rash decisions, I lost them. Now Potter is my family, the only one I have left to protect.

And I won't allow him to make the same mistakes I did.

* * *

4 AM. I can't sleep. In fact, I can't even bring myself to close my eyes.

Ginny sleeps with her back towards me. It's her angry pose. I can't blame her, anyone would be angry if they came home after being away two months and their lover refused to sleep with them.

I told her I can't have sex with Draco Malfoy sleeping downstairs. It's the truth, but for completely different reasons than she thinks.

"_You promised that he wouldn't disrupt our lives! I've been away for two months, and now you… you won't even touch me?"_

She's angry and hurt. Of course she is, who wouldn't be? But not nearly as angry and hurt as she would be if she knew the truth.

I feel as if living in a dream. Everything is surreal, warped, twisted. I'm lying in my own bed, but I feel as if I'm looking down on myself, cursing and wondering what the hell that stupid git with the funny scar is doing.

I thought I had solved my problem, made a decision. And I really believed that nothing could make me change my mind.

Now I'm no longer sure.

I can't let Draco go. I just can't. I have fought for him for too long, loved him for too long to just throw him away. How could I live in this horrid house without hearing the _1812 overture _sounding from the living room at least once a day? Without hearing him scold me for my lack of imagination in my cooking? Without feeling him pressed against me in his sleep and feeling his soft snore against my neck.?

But how can I leave a woman carrying my child? Not just any woman, but Ginny? My Ginny. Ginny who has stayed by me through these horrible years, Ginny who has borne my nearly obsessive search for a person that she hates without once complaining.

She is giving me everything I always wanted. But lying in this bed next to her, I can't bring myself to reach out for her. These inches that separate us are nothing compared to the distance, the void that has grown between us. And it strikes me that my greatest wish might no longer be what it once was.

I want a child. I want a family. But suddenly my imaginary family portrait looks a lot different than it did six months ago.

I love Ginny. I will always love her, in one way or the other. But she is not Draco.

* * *

Sunday morning. I stay in my room as long as possible, pretending to sleep.

I can't go out there. I can't go out there and see the Weaslette's ecstatic smile as she clings to Potter's arm. I can't watch Potter's discomfort, I can't witness the torn expression he wears when he tries to come up with an easy way to let me down.

The hours snail by. I can hear the low rumble of voices, occasional noise of someone rummaging around in the kitchen, and the Weaslette's clear laugh sounding through the house. And every once in a while I hear the set of soft footsteps walking back and forth outside my bedroom door. He is anxious, waiting for me to come out while at the same time dreading the moment. I wait for him to knock, wish desperately that he would knock on my door, a subtle gesture telling me that he needs me.

But the footsteps come and go, and not once does he approach the door. And I remain hidden behind it, counting seconds until Monday, when I can leave this place. When I can walk through that door and know that the worst is over.

Right now, the worst is yet to come.

The clock has struck three before I finally force myself to walk through that door. On unsteady legs I enter the kitchen, walking in on the Weaslette serving Potter a cup of tea. The appealing smell of scones that fills the room makes me want to retch.

"Malfoy!" Potter exclaims, his voice a mixture of unpleased surprise and relief. He looks as if he would like to jump up from his seat, but at the last second he restrains himself. Ginny gives him a strange look, and I can see Potter fighting to look calm.

"What have you been doing all day?" he asks, his genuine concern obvious.

"I was sleeping," I mutter. A poor excuse. "I didn't get much sleep last night."

Potter looks as if he would like to respond, but the Weaslette interrupts him.

"I told you so," she says, a teasing smile directed at Potter. She then turns to me, her face noticeably more reserved. "Harry wanted to call you out for lunch, but I told him you probably didn't want to be disturbed."

I swallow, fighting to keep myself from sneering viciously at the smiling redhead before me. Potter sits on needles, looking much as if he is expecting a storm to break out any minute.

"Yeah," I answer the Weaslette with a forced stretch of my lips. "Good call."

Without awaiting an answer, I stalk over to the cupboard and pour myself a cup of coffee from the pan. Grabbing an apple from the fruit basket, I move to exit to the living room. Potter moves as if to say something, but I hurry to cut him off, not sure if I can bear listening to his voice in that reserved, horrible tone he uses when the Weaslette is around.

"I'm going to watch some telly," I announce, stalking into the living room without waiting for an answer. Before slumping down on the couch and turning on the TV I can hear the Weaslette sigh in irritation.

"God, he's so rude!"

* * *

"Draco?"

Potter's voice almost causes me to jump in my seat. I cast a brief glimpse at him before I turn back to the reality show I'm pretending to watch. "What do you want, Potter?"

He doesn't answer, but moves around the couch to take a seat next to me. After a moment of silence, I find myself forced to recognise his existence.

"Where is your little wife?" I ask, hating myself for letting my bitterness show so clearly.

"Ginny's gone to bed," Potter answers, ignoring my 'little wife' parallel by pronouncing the twit's name unnecessarily clearly. "I hoped that we could talk."

"What is it?" I ask in feigned ennui, staring intently at the flat screen in front of me. Potter takes a deep breath, no doubt trying to compose an even somewhat sensible sentence in his head. I hold my breath, thinking that this is it. This is the moment when he breaks the precious illusion we both hold on to so dearly.

"I want you with me when I tell her tomorrow."

For a second I'm certain that I misheard him. When I turn to stare at him with wide eyes screaming of shock, he fidgets uncomfortably under my gaze, but keeps his gaze locked with mine. "I need you. I can't do this alone."

I hate him. I hate him so much. For making this even harder than it has to be, for lighting the last flame of hope by saying that he would choose me. For trying to spare my feelings by not telling me of the child.

I hate him for choosing me and for making what I have to do just that much more difficult.

Unable to let a single word pass my lips in fear of that it might be the wrong one, I turn away with a furious gaze. The remote in my hand, I shut off the TV and rise from my seat, ignoring Potter's confused stare.

"Draco?"

Just as I am moving away from the couch, thinking that I might be able to escape this situation, I feel a clammy hand wrap around my wrist.

"Where are you going?" Potter hisses, not in anger but in distress. He grabs me by my upper arms, forcing me t look directly at him. "What is it?"

All night I have lain awake thinking of how I could possibly tell him that I'm leaving. Wondering how I would ever get the words out of my mouth without breaking down in front of him.

But now that I'm here,, staring into those vibrant green eyes that I love more than anything, I find that old habits die hard. And I'm not quite sure if that makes me relieved, or just disappointed.

"You're not telling her anything."

"What?" Potter asks, baffled, staring at me with wide eyes. "But… I thought-" he trails off, so befuddled that he looks almost amused. "I can't _not _break up with her!" he exclaims, a slightly hysterical laugh escaping him. "She expects you to be gone tomorrow, and when you're not she will-"

"You're not breaking up with her." I stare at him coldly, feeling my face turn into a hard façade of stone. The knowledge of my familiar shield gives me the courage to continue.

"I'm leaving tomorrow. She won't know anything."

It is a clear order, and it draws the final doubt from Potter's expression.

"You're… You're _leaving?_" he repeats disbelievingly, looking completely horrified. "But I thought that… We said that we… _Why?_" he forces forth the question, and I feel my heart ice over as I see tears forming in Potter's eyes. I force myself to swallow my regret and not show a trace of doubt in my expression as I answer.

"This is best for everyone."

_This is best for _you_. Stop asking stupid questions and be grateful._

Potter opens his mouth to answer, and I start to fear that his denial will break my determination.

"Harry? Are you coming?"

I turn around to see the Weaslette in the stairs, looking expectantly at Potter. For a moment I wonder how long she has stood there, but her face does not tell of any anger or surprise. I breathe out in relief: Weasley's have never been good at hiding anything.

"I'm going to bed," I proclaim, casting a last resolute glance towards Potter before turning around and retiring to the guest bedroom. Slamming the door shut behind me, I lean back towards it for a long while.

"He was going to choose me," I whisper to the empty room, feeling a lonely tear make it's way down my cheek. No one can hear me, and hearing the words out loud only makes me feel worse. But I need to voice them. Speaking them aloud makes them real. It makes what he felt for me real.

Not that it matters anymore. Tomorrow I will leave, and he will stay. He will stay and raise a family, and he will be happy. Most importantly, he won't have time to miss me. Soon enough, his memories of me will fade into oblivion.

And even as the thought is breaking my heart, it's all I'm asking for.

How ironic that my first unselfish deed should be this painful.

**End of part XIV**


	15. Heaven's Eyes

**Part XV  
Heaven's Eyes**

"So," Ginny begins on Monday morning, smiling towards me from behind her teacup. "I thought I'd invite Ron and Hermione over for dinner tonight, now that Malfoy is finally leaving. You know, to share the big news?"

Her smile is sweet, but the forced softness in her voice cannot hide the loathing she feels for Malfoy. It is also more than obvious that my reaction to 'the big news' haven't exactly been what she expected.

What can I do? I'm ecstatic over becoming a father, truly. Terrified, but ecstatic. But my feelings for Draco cannot automatically transfer to Ginny because of the child she is carrying. I almost keep expecting it to happen, but it doesn't. And I don't think that it ever will. In truth, I didn't want them to.

Until last night.

"_I'm leaving tomorrow. She won't know anything."_

I didn't want to believe it. I still don't. But I'm afraid, so unbelievably afraid that Draco was sincere about what he said.

For some reason he still thinks that I will choose Ginny over him. He wants to save himself the pain of being abandoned, he thinks it to be better to leave than to be left.

God, he is such a fool.

I want to talk to him, I need to talk to him. Convince him that he is wrong, that I will never choose Ginny over him. I had my doubts once, but they are long gone. Now I cannot imagine a life without him.

I have to talk to him.

"Potter, you ready?"

There he now stands in the doorway, suitcase in hand. And he is looking at me with a cold and indifferent gaze, as if he doesn't know me. As if nothing has changed from our schooldays. Maybe nothing has. Maybe we are still controlled by situations that are out of our hands, maybe we still live our lives in the manner that we think is expected of us.

I'm so sick and tired of it all.

"Yeah, I'm ready," I say, rising from my seat. Ginny catches me on my way to the door, giving me a quick peck on the lips. Malfoy doesn't even blink, and I feel sick to my stomach.

Neither of us says a word as we step into the Floo.

* * *

"So, Mr Malfoy," Judge Anthony Grachev says, eyeing a pile of parchment on his desk. "In your report Mr Potter states that your behaviour has been exemplary during your 60 day probation. He seems to be convinced that you are to perfectly fit to enter back into society."

The Judge leans his elbows down on his desk, his dark brown eyes peering at me from behind thick glasses. I lean back in the uncomfortable chair, knowing my expression to be calm and collected even under the judge's scrutiny.

"What do you think?" the man asks, a question I wasn't quite expecting. It takes me a moment to find the words.

"I believe that I am ready to take my place in society," I state confidently, holding my posture proudly. "I am not the person I was those years ago. I have learned my lesson, and I believe that I can contribute to making our world a better place."

Beautiful words, truly. And a whole lot of crap. True, I have grown out of the person I was all that time ago. I believe I have changed. But what I can contribute to society has little to do with my will to do it, and more to do with other people's will to accept me. 'A better place'? Hardly. The riddance of Death Eaters from society doesn't make what's left of our world 'good'. Most likely it will make it even worse.

When they have no one to unite against, people will only turn against each other. There must always be an enemy.

But naturally, the high and noble Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement doesn't think like that. He nods approvingly at my answer, browsing through the pages of parchment before him again.

"Well then, Mr Malfoy, I believe that you deserve another chance," he says after a long silence, reaching for a beautiful black quill on his desk and dipping it in a bottle of bright red ink. He places one of the documents on top of the pile, already pressing the quill to the parchment when he hesitates.

"Do see to it that you don't make me regret my decision," Grachev warns, giving me a pointed look. I don't even bother to look affected by his speech, but merely lean back and watch the black quill scratch the sloppy traces of the Judge's name onto the parchment.

Grachev gives the document a last look before handing both parchment and quill towards me. "Your signature and date here, please."

I gaze over the document quickly. It's all there, big words and complicated sentences warning me of Azkaban if I ever touch a wand or threaten another human being again. Lovely.

Swallowing a mirthless snort, I artfully scribble my name and the date on the left corner of the parchment before I hand it back to the Judge. He produces his wand from the desk drawer and quickly makes a copy of the document, handing the original to me.

"Here you go, Mr Malfoy," he says, standing up from his seat. "You are now a free man."

I rise from my own chair, shaking Grachev's outstretched hand with one hand while clenching the document with the other.

"Thank you, sir," I state, barely aware that I am speaking at all. As if in a dream I bid the Judge farewell and exit the room. The entire situation is almost too surreal for me to believe.

I am free. Utterly and completely free. For the first time in my entire life, I can do anything I want to, without anyone interfering.

"What did he say?" a clear voice asks me as I step through the door. And somehow freedom doesn't taste quite as sweet as it should.

I turn towards Potter, fighting to keep my face neutral as I show him the document. "I'm free," I croak, avoiding Potter's gaze as best as I can.

"Really?" the Gryffindor exclaims, his face splitting into a broad smile. "That's fantastic, Draco!" And suddenly the awkwardness that has lingered between us since last night is gone. He throws himself around my neck, capturing me in such a heartfelt embrace that I fear my heart will burst with joy. I almost begin to return the hug when I notice the strange look Judge Grachev's secretary is giving us.

"Yeah, fantastic," I murmur, pushing Potter away, my eyes locked on the floor. I can't see Potter's face, but his disappointment reeks like sulphur in the atmosphere. I feel as if I'm choking.

"Come on," Potter says, his voice so harsh and demanding that I don't even have the presence of mind to try and protest.

_Why bother, anyway? _I think as I follow him out of the Ministry and into the streets of Muggle London. Hard as it may be, we need to have this talk. I need to make my sentiments clear, once and for all.

We walk in silence down the street, Potter trying to come up with something to say, me desperately hoping that he won't. Then suddenly out of nowhere he grabs me by the front of my coat, pulling me towards him in a fierce kiss. My suitcase slips out of my hand, and I hear it fall heavily onto the asphalt. People walk past us, appalled whispers echoing in the air, and the embarrassment almost overpowers my need to indulge myself one last time.

When he pulls away, I am overwhelmed with regret. I regret that I allowed the kiss last as long as it did. I regret that it cannot last longer.

"I want you," he says simply, staring at me with brilliant green eyes aflame with desire and despair. "I want you to stay with me."

"No," I state quickly, before I give myself time to regret my words. "I'm leaving."

"Why?" he asks, brow furrowed in frustration. "I promised you that I will leave Ginny? Why would you suddenly-"

"You need to stay with her," I insist, looking away, unable to keep meeting his gaze. "She needs you. Your _child _needs you."

Potter stares at me in stunned silence for a long while. Finally, I am forced to look up and take in his expression.

"You _know?_" he croaks, shocked and horrified.

"Yes, I know," I confirm, fighting for my life to keep my voice and face in strict neutral indifference.

"And you think I should choose Ginny over you because of the child?" His voice is dull and monotone, and something in it awakes a sense of alarm in me. But in spite of the warning signals, I decide speak my mind.

"You will choose her," I state clearly, commanding, trying desperately to leave him no room for objections.

But I am in no way prepared when Potter steps forward once more, grabbing my upper arms and pulling me violently towards him.

"And what do you think gives you the right to make that decision for me?" he roars, his face mere inches from mine, his pulse beating so furiously I imagine I can hear the beating of his heart as he presses ever closer. It takes a moment for me to realise that I'm not breathing.

"It doesn't matter what you choose!" I mutter breathily, breaking away from Potter's grasp and standing back to stare at him with a disdainful gaze. "Either way, I will leave."

All the anger seems to melt of Potter's face with my words, and suddenly the man that stands before me seems so feeble and powerless that I barely recognise him.

"But _why?_" he asks weakly, his brows knitted and his shiny eyes warning of tears.

I shake my head, fighting to remain strong even as Potter breaks down before my eyes. "Because I'm tired of pretending that all of this will just magically go away if we wish it hard enough."

Potter stares at me in silence, his face expressing such devastation that my guilt makes me feel momentarily short of breath. But I press on, determined to drive him away, if I so have to hurt him in the process.

"I love you, you know that," I state, amazed of how easily the words pass my lips these days. It might be a mistake to voice my feelings for him in this situation, but I have to say those words. This will be the last chance I have. "Just not enough to go through all of this."

Lying through my teeth, I try my best to look convincing. "I'm tired of fighting. I'm tired of being the enemy," I say, hating myself more for every word I utter. "Now that I'm finally free, I just want to be left alone."

It's all a lie, of course. I would die for him, an outraged girlfriend and the crazy media be damned. And I will never be left alone, with or without the reputation of being the one to render Harry Potter gay.

But the words hit home, the anguish on Potter's face too deep to be anything but true. It pains me how easily he believes my lies, how shallow he believes my feelings for him to be.

But I can mourn that later.

"I see," Potter finally croaks, looking down at the ground. A sudden blow of regret and guilt makes me take a step forward, but I immediately stop myself from making any further movements. To amend my slip, I reach forward a formal hand. Potter stares at my hand in wonder for a long moment before finally grabbing it.

"Thank you. For everything," I state curtly, shaking his hand firmly. I then try to pull away, but Potter doesn't let go. He holds on to my hand, staring at me intently for a long while.

"Don't thank me," he answers finally, his voice so raw I can barely make out the words. Feeling tears burn behind my eyes, I pull my hand back and reach down to lift up my suitcase. Smiling softly towards Potter one last time, I turn away for the last time.

His gaze burns on my back as I walk down the street, but I don't look back. I have made the right decision, of that I am certain.

He loved Ginny once. It will not take much to reawaken old feelings. She is one of his kind, a Gryffindor, a Weasley. She is his family.

So I am leaving. I'm ending this. I'm torn inside between what I desire and what I know is right, but I won't condescend to a fight.

I want for him to be happy with his family. And if that's what it takes for me to be able to back away, I will tell myself that she will love him more than I ever could have.

Of course, it is a lie. If I had had the right, I would have loved him more than anyone. If there had been a place for us, in another time, I would have held on to him and never let go. But this is not that time, not that place.

People will continue to judge me for my deeds, probably for the rest of my life. And that with good right. I have killed and savaged, lived on the outside of the law and the general concept of morals. But I have loved and lost like any man, hero or thief.

I have not been a saint. But even if no one will ever know it, I have redeemed my sins. Although the knowledge will only ever remain between Potter and me, I have atoned for some of what I have done. I have given back what I took, parted from what means most to me.

I think the regret of that should count for something in the eyes of Heaven.

* * *

"Harry?"

Ginny's voice sounds to me as soon as I step out of the Floo. Cursing silently to myself, I do everything I can to keep my tears back as I walk into the kitchen. There I find Ginny, Ron and Hermione, all gathered around the breakfast table.

"Did they let Malfoy go?" Ginny asks expectantly, looking past my shoulder as if afraid that she might see a blond head appear behind me.

My eyes meet Hermione's, who is staring at me with confusion and sympathy. And I hate her in this moment. Who is she to pity me, who is she to try to understand what I have gone through? Who is she to try and ease my pain over something that I brought on myself?

"Yeah," I say, horrified over how broken my voice sounds.

_I am the last person here who deserves any sympathy._

"Yeah, he's gone."

**End of part XV.**


	16. Epilogue: More Than Words

**Epilogue  
****More Than Words**

"Excuse me, sir."

I look over my shoulder to see a shabby-looking woman in her thirties, holding the hand of an obnoxious little boy with hands sticky from a substance that looks suspiciously like chocolate.

"Yes?" I enquire, fighting the urge to sneer at the child.

"I'm searching for a book called _Unfogging the Future_," the woman asks, her eyes travelling subconsciously to the nametag on my robe. Her eyes widen dramatically behind her horrifying pink spectacles, a slight crease forming between her brows.

I sigh, knowing exactly why she is staring at me. "Yes, _Unfogging the Future _by Cassandra Vablatsky can be found on shelf 16, row 33," I answer stiffly. "And please keep an eye on your son. We wouldn't want him touching the books with his dirty hands, now would we?" I state snarkily, leering at the child.

The woman stares at me in horrification and hurries to pull her child after her as she moves away, muttering a stuttering "No, of course not… My, how rude…!".

I sneer at the retreating woman, barely able to prevent myself from cursing out loud as I turn back to arranging the books in the cart in front of me onto the shelves.

Every day is the same as the previous. People approach me asking inane questions about this or that book, and each and every one of them look horrified when they realise whom they are faced with. It doesn't matter that I have a normal job, that I am a hard-working wizard working for the fifth year at the respectable Flourish and Blotts. To the crowd I still am, and will always be, nothing but a former Death Eater.

I would have given anything to be able to stay away from this place. But without a diploma from any school, no Muggle would hire me, not even as a store clerk. So now I'm stacking books in Flourish and Blotts, my tasks as simple and inane as those of a Squib's. Of course, without my magic, I am no better than one. No matter what I try to tell myself.

Just as I am fighting to fit a copy of _Confronting the Faceless _into the already overfilled shelf, something rams violently into my leg.

"What the-" I call out as the collision throws me out of balance. I am able to keep myself upright by grabbing on to the shelf, but the book falls to the floor with a loud thud.

"Sorry, mister," a small voice says, and I look down to see the little boy who has spoken. He can't be more than three or four years old, rough pitch-black hair standing in every direction on his little head.

I have already opened my mouth to yell at the kid for disrupting my work, but then I happen to look over the child's head, and the sight that meets me is enough to knock me over anew.

Harry Potter is standing down the row of shelves, his lips drawn in a small, affectionate smile as he looks over at me.

"Hey," he says as he approaches, his smile widening further.

"Hi," I croak, to my embarrassment feeling my knees go weak instantly. God, who could believe that his mere presence would affect me so after all these years?

But Merlin, he looks amazing. I suppose these years have been much kinder to him than they have to me. He looks no older than when I left him on that Muggle street, while I am have somehow turned in to a tired, weary old man at the age of 26.

I can't help but stare at the man in front of me, my mouth opening and closing stupidly. Just as I clear my throat and prepare to force some actual words to cross my lips, I watch in surprise as Potter leans down to pick up the small boy from the floor.

"Here you are!" Potter exclaims, trying to look stern while the child only laughs at him. "I told you not to run off on your own!"

"I'm sorry," the boy says, not sounding the least bit sorry at all.

Seeing those two side by side, I see what I should have realised the first time I laid eyes on the boy. There is no doubt that the kid is a Potter: he has the same unruly inky hair, the same arch of the upper lip, and the same straight nose.

"So, this is-" I begin, smiling weakly at the small boy.

"This is James," Potter says, his face lighting up in a proud fatherly smile. "James, say hello to Mr Malfoy."

The boy stares at me from under a furrowed row for a second, before a quirky smirk forms on his lips. "Hello, Mister," he says, grinning. And there is something in that expression, so open and honest, so like Harry, that I feel a lump gather in my throat.

"Hello, James," I croak, feeling an embarrassed flush spread on my face. I can't believe I'm behaving like such a fool in front of Potter, after all these years! God, it is as if I'm sixteen once again.

The child starts to fidget in Potter's arms, and he lets him down onto the floor, chuckling softly. "Why don't you go find aunt Hermione. I think she's still where we left her, by the door."

"Yes, Daddy!" the kid laughs at his father, scurrying towards the door faster than fast. Potter watches him go, before turning back to me.

"Well," I begin, starting to find my confidence again, now that the child is not here to distract me anymore. "Where is the wife?"

It is probably the worst question of all. Yet, it is the only one I really _want _to ask.

To my surprise though, Potter only grins. For a moment I feel my heart sink. If he cannot even feel awkward about me asking about Ginny, it means he really doesn't care anymore.

Potter's smile is blinding. "There is no wife."

_What?_

"I'm divorced since six months ago."

There is nothing for me to say. I have no response prepared for that sentence. So I remain staring at Potter, my jaw slack and mouth open in surprise.

When Potter doesn't say anything further, I try to shake myself out of my shock. Looking around, I notice the copy of _Confronting the Faceless _still lying on the floor.

"So, why are you here" I ask as I crouch down to pick up the book. "Is there something specific that you're looking for?"

"Yes."

I reach for the book, but find it already being handed to me. Potter offers me the book with a small, seductive smile on his face.

"You. I was looking for you."

_finis. _


End file.
